


Beyond the moon you'll see the stars/You know the room by heart

by bigchickcannibalistic



Category: Muted (webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dancing, F/F, Fluff, and some baggage, as of episode 19, because most of this was written beforehand and the author is lazy and sleepdeprived, just two ladies being dumbasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 07:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19988281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigchickcannibalistic/pseuds/bigchickcannibalistic
Summary: And if Camille notices, when she manages to come down for breakfast an hour later (which is short by Avaline’s standards; apparently the party was boring without Camille even though Camille doubts she’d make it that much more enjoyable; bearable sure, but — anyway) — if Camille notices the fresh bandages wrapped around Nyra’s hand, or that they’re topped off with a very Silvia-like bow, she doesn’t say anything.And if she’s barely taken two bites of her waffles (bless Silvia) before Foxtrot plops over Camille’s left foot, Camille certainly doesn’t spit out her waffles. She swallows them with a hefty gulp of juice, and totally ignores Nyra’s glances below the table. And no, before you ask, she doesn’t hiccup when she catches Nyra’s faintTraitor.Or, Camille's time at the Severin Manor with a very Nyra-like touch





	Beyond the moon you'll see the stars/You know the room by heart

**Author's Note:**

> This was born from several fever dreams at 3 am and viciously typing them down. Needless to say, editing wasn't on the agenda of those fever dreams so I apologise for any mistakes. Also I'd like to apologise to the author of _Muted_ for butchering at least half a dozen names and quite possibly still getting some of them wrong.
> 
> With that said, I hope you can all still enjoy this lil thing.
> 
> Also if you haven't read the webtoon, I highly recommend, it is a gem.
> 
> Title is from Caro Emerald's song, _A Night Like This_

_We walk in grace and gradually learn to dance_.

\- Lewis B. Smedes, _Shame and Grace: Healing the Shame We Don’t Deserve_

—————

They come back so late — or well, so early she supposes — from the LaCour party, Camille thinks it’d hardly count as spending the night at the mansion. Still with the snap of alligators and the whispers lingering in her ears, she can’t help but wonder whether spending the night at the mansion would’ve been better.

The way her dress clings to her back, tugging at the scars; the way her fingers itch with magical threads, the way it lingers on the back of her throat; the feeling of two eyes burning in the back of her head — well, makes a girl think spending the night in the stifling, almost-haunted mansion was definitely the better choice.

_CAMILLE. SLEEP GO?_ Camille straightens, blinking around atop the staircase before she remembers Toben’s literally nested himself atop her head. It also reminds her, pointedly, that the other Dupre witch — _Sloan; c’mon Camille be polite —_ has already left, leaving her alone with Nyra.

Nyra who’s looking at her yet not really? Or rather, she’s looking but pretending not to, which only makes the glances more poignant — reminds her of a hint of different glances at the party, hidden in the whirlwind of music and heat and dancing — lures out a _maybe the party wasn’t so bad —_ and brings another type of warmth crawling along Camille’s neck.

“Um,” Nyra coughs into her hand, eyes looking at somewhere to Camille’s left. “Can I get Foxtrot back?”

And Camille remembers, with an onslaught of heat to her face, why her arms are sore. Remembers the bundle of bright fur that had wiggled into her lap on the ride back and fell asleep. Remembers thinking it’d be a shame to wake him up and deciding to just scoop him up on the trek up the stairs.

It should strike her as odd that neither Dupre witch had stepped up to stop her from literally carrying someone else’s familiar like he was her housecat. Which she’s certain is breaking several dozen etiquette rules in witchdom, and would warrant an hour long rant from aunt Athalie, possibly coupled with power point presentations, but —

But what her brain decides to focus on is: “You named him Foxtrot?”

And Camille is _this_ close to facepalming herself because _by the spirits, Camille, you can’t just ask someone why their familiar is called like that_ but stops when laughter reaches her ears. The low, half-muffled snort of a laugh, not loud enough to echo down the hall but definitely enough to bounce around Camille’s chest.

“Hey, he’s the one who got so hung up on a vinyl record for the foxtrot.” Nyra smirks. “At least he didn’t go for the metal records.”

“I suppose it is better.”

“Glad the princess approves.” And Camille doesn’t have time to go into the nickname, or the way Nyra’s eyes flash in the low light, because the Dupre witch raises her hand, fingers gesturing to the fox and she all but purrs, “My fox, if milady pleases?”

And really what is a girl supposed to do?

Definitely not blink owlishly while said fox familiar jumps down to his partner. Or stutter out a half-sentence when Nyra gives a mock bow and disappears along the other hall _. Like anything but that would’ve done._

Even thanking her for beating up that witch for insulting Camille.

_Okay, maybe not that._

_Wait, hold, on they have their own ROOMS???? HeLOU??!?_

Something pokes her temple, skimming the line of her eyebrow.

_CAMILLE, SLEEP._

—————

Blissfully Silvia lets her sleep in.

Unfortunately, Avaline doesn’t; her call catapulting Toben out of his sleep, who in turn taps Camille awake until, and she quotes, _THE AWFUL PECKING STOPS_. It’s not lost on Camille, barely awake as she is, how ironic that is coming from a _woodpecker._

And if Camille notices, when she manages to come down for breakfast an hour later (which is short by Avaline’s standards; apparently the party was boring without Camille even though Camille doubts she’d make it that much more enjoyable; bearable sure, but — anyway) — if Camille notices the fresh bandages wrapped around Nyra’s hand, or that they’re topped off with a very Silvia-like bow, she doesn’t say anything.

And if she’s barely taken two bites of her waffles (bless Silvia) before Foxtrot plops over Camille’s left foot, Camille certainly doesn’t spit out her waffles. She swallows them with a hefty gulp of juice, and totally ignores Nyra’s glances below the table. And no, before you ask, she doesn’t hiccup when she catches Nyra’s faint _Traitor._

Though Camille supposes it’s only fair, since Nyra has been bribing Toben with berries since she came down. (Camille makes a mental note to check the back garden for blueberries. Not that he needs food but still.)

—————

(Camille knows there are other Severins in the manor. I mean one cannot keep the manor is a liveable state alone, no matter how talented Silvia might be at multitasking. Then again she might’ve asked the Dupres for help, as compensation for them literally living there for — how long did Nyra say? A month? Two weeks? More less? —

Anyway, she knows, somewhere in the back of her mind her (distant) relatives still live in the manor. But she never stopped to actually _find_ any of them during the first day. No, instead she literally went out and got lost into the forest and swamp. _Again._ And it’s been 8 years so truthfully Camille doesn’t know what kind of reactions to expect from her (distant) relatives.

So when she makes her way to the garden and one of the young Severin girl literally dashes into the deeper parts of the garden, with her orange-stripped sparrow following suit in confusion, all from a simple _Hello,_ well. That doesn’t bode well for her self-confidence.

The bitter weight sits in her stomach well after she left the garden with a handkerchief-full of blueberries; well after one of the older Severins — also tending the garden it seemed — assured her, _Millie’s just jumpy, miss Camille._ )

—————

It’s two days later that Camille finds Nyra again.

Not that she was particularly looking —

Well, okay, maybe she _was_. But that was purely to investigate the source of the… _colourful_ expletives interrupting her studies. Definitely not to avoid going over the third book on runewriting _again_ , and certainly not because if she sees another elaborate rune schematic, she will snap a book’s spine.

Truthfully it’s only as she’s heading down to one of the back balconies that Camille realises how late it is, what with the hallways clinging to magic-born light and the off magicked flock of lanterns (which still strikes her as odd, despite Silvia’s pride at creating them and creating them _safe._ )

And it’s with the darkened sky in sight and the off-tune flap of a magicked lantern that Camille has to wonder why one Lilinyra Dupre would choose now to wash her familiar. At least Camille hopes the speck of orange peeking amid a tussle of suds and one very agitated Dupre witch is Foxtrot. Otherwise they might have a strays problem. Or a wandering, unruly LeRoux child problem, though she doubts Lilinyra would give her a bath.

_NOT PROBLEM. MORE FRIENDS._

“I’d rather you have friends who don’t want to eat you, Tobs.”

_NO EAT. ONLY FRIENDS,_ her familiar insists and soars down the stairs ahead of her before vanishing into the dark surrounding the garden. Losing sight of him still sparks a pang of fear, has Camille’s hand curl and fingers dig into her palm, but she reminds herself he’s only ever a quick _Sensing_ away.

So instead of trying to find Toben in the dark trees, she turns her gaze to Nyra as she tries to wrestles her fox (the tail gave him away) back into the miniature tub. It almost seems like she succeeds but the fox merely stills for half a second before jumping into the other end of the tub and sending water splashing all over Nyra.

“Do you need assistance?” Camille asks, politely shifting her gaze away from Nyra and the way her wet shirt is clinging to her front. Because Camille will not be a creep, and definitely can keep her eyes away and her blush at bay.

_LIAR._

Camille flicks a mild glare toward the trees.

“I’m good,” Nyra grunts, though it sounds closer to a growl. Camille turns in time to catch Nyra shaking her hands at Foxtrot, and her eyes linger on Nyra’s wet bandages. Her wet, bloody bandages. Camille can’t imagine the soapy water is doing her any favours with recovering from the scrapes.

So while Nyra’s glaring at her familiar (and pouting; Camille’s adult enough to admit her brain did a double take at that) Camille’s unbuttoning and rolling up her sleeves. The look of utter surprise on Nyra’s face as she crouches on the other side of the tub and picks up the soap — well, it’s well worth Foxtrot’s claws and her skirt getting wet. And okay maybe a part of her is flushed with pride at leaving Nyra speechless.

“You picked an odd time to give him a bath,” Camille says instead. It seems to be enough to snap Nyra out of her stupor.

“I wouldn’t have to if _somebody_ —” Nyra pokes Foxtrot with a sudsy finger, “didn’t go off chasing rodents in the garden.”

“Well, I read a study that familiars take after their partners.” Camille bites back a grin at the sound of a positively dramatic gasp. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip doubly so when even Foxtrot gives her an affronted look, and it’s the only warning she — or rather both of them get — before he shakes the suds and water from his fur, splashing it all over them.

“Asshole!” Nyra shouts and dunks him beneath the water.

By the time Camille swipes the water from her eyes, three bouts of wrestling later, and her fingers burning where the suds are pinching her fresh scrapes — courtesy of Foxtrot’s teeth — the fox is already halfway up the stairs. She blinks up in time to see him shake off the last of the suds from his fur, but it leaves his tail sticking out this way and that. She manages a light snort before more water’s slashed in her face.

It doesn’t take a genius to figure out Nyra’s the culprit, not at all because of her snickering or the smirk she shoots Camille’s way, or the fact her hand is still in the tub, poised for another splash. The whole situation is childish. Ridiculous. Utterly unbefitting a Severin.

Camille feels herself grin.

_Well two can play at that game._

—————

By the time they go back into the mansion, Foxtrot’s all dried up and the two witches are trailing puddles along the floor.

“Well, in that case.” And Nyra offers the towel Camille assumes was meant to dry off Foxtrot. Years of manners and etiquette lessons with her aunt Athalie urge Camille to decline the towel because surely Nyra should use it for herself. But common sense points out Nyra is a _Dupre_ witch. So Camille clicks her tongue and takes the towel.

However it’s both, with a niggling sense of guilt, born from watching Nyra unroll the ruined bandages with a _tsk_ , that has her stopping Nyra before she disappears in the hallway. Though she can’t tell you where the boldness to grab her hand comes from. (Probably from the thrill of beating Nyra in their little water war, even if Nyra would deny it. Or maybe it’s the high of laughing so hard.)

(Or maybe it’s the question of whether Nyra runs hotter than one normally does because of her magic.)

(Spoilers: She does.)

Though as quickly as it came, it sizzles out at Nyra’s curious glance at their hands. Camille quickly lets go, and clears her throat.

“I never did thank you. For what you did at the party,” she clarifies at Nyra’s confused head-tilt.

“You shouldn’t have to deal with shit some ignorant fuck says. You’ve been through enough,” Nyra says like she’s listing off facts. Yet beneath the bluntness, beneath the nonchalant shrug Nyra offers and the way her eyes glance down at Camille’s arms, Camille gets a sense it hits close to home for Nyra as well. Then again, she supposes being accused of murdering a matriarch of another family paints you a target for all sort of shit-talk and insults.

She never thought of it that way — never thought what the Dupres had to go through because she was so sure they did it and yet.

Just like she was so sure she was purely a Severin. And yet.

And yet.

It makes something in her chest tighten, but she forces it down, offers a small smile she hopes comes off as sincere. “Still. Thanks.”

“Don’t sweat it, princess.” Then Nyra grimaces, a hand flies up to rub at the back of her neck, and it might be a flickering magicked lantern at work but Camille could swear Nyra’s cheeks are darker. “I did shorten the party rather quickly for ya, though.”

“Honestly if you didn’t punch her, I’m pretty sure I would’ve so —” Camille shrugs, her shirt un-sticking itself from her back with an itching tug. But the discomfort’s worth the guffaw Nyra lets out, and a breathed out _I’d pay to see that._

And no, Camille definitely doesn’t hide her warm cheeks behind a towel just because of the way Nyra’s voice goes raspy. She does, however, hide when she catches sight of Silvia materialising behind Nyra and her eyes pointedly looking at the puddles on the floor and their wet clothes.

—————

Her phone buzzes on the window sill, a notification with an unknown number flashing, a short _hey_ underneath. Camille throws a quick glance outside and spots her target leaning against the stony railing, definitely staring at her phone.

Just to make matters simpler, or to not totally be a creep, her phone pings again with the same number and an _it’s Nyra btw_.

Fingers curl against her book, Toben’s rhythmic pecking curling around her. _Tap — taptaptaptap — taptaptap — taptap —_

With a sigh Camille scoops up her phone and texts back, _How did you get this number?_

_Um, Silvia gave me?_ — It reads, and Camille squints at the array of thinking emojies. Another buzz. _For the LaCour party, remember? In case we got separated._

_Oh, that actually makes sense_ — Camille writes back before she can think better of it.

_Did you think I randomly asked her for your number????_

_No —_ Camille shoots back immediately; too quickly for it not to be a deflection and when she peers out the window, Nyra is looking up right at her, shades low on her face. _What is it with her and wearing shades all the time_ , Camille wonders, not at all to distract herself from the blush colouring her cheeks.

And if she leans back against her pillow, half-hidden from the window, it’s not at all so she doesn’t have to see the suggestion of a smirk on Nyra’s face. Nope, totally unrelated. Her back was just stinging from the angle. And her leg totally fell asleep.

Camille’s phone vibrates thrice in quick succession it has her leg jerk and — _oh,_ okay maybe her leg really did fall asleep.

She mutters a simple circulation spell, hand rubbing down toward her knee, magic prickling below her fingers until they trip over her knee and down to her ankle, numbness fading along with it. Camille tests her legs, makes sure she didn’t put too much magic into the spell — she didn’t — before she unlocks her phone.

_I got better game than that, princess —_ trailed by a simple tongue-sticking-out emoji.

_Anyway_

_Ashanti’s throwing another lil soiree — like, way smaller than last time and hopefully with less ignorant assholes_

Camille doesn’t realise how hard she’s holding her phone until it buzzes in her palm and the corners dig painfully into her palm. Doesn’t realise she’s been holding her breath until she it leaves her in a startled yelp. Doesn’t realise she’s so tense until Toben lands on her head with an inquisitive chirp.

_Y’know, —_ Nyra’s message starts — _in case you wanna come with?_

_Because last time ended so well,_ Camille wants to bite back.

_So I can maybe punch an alligator this time?_ She wants to argue.

_So everyone can look at me and say ‘oh there’s that Severin girl, the poor thing’_ , she almost says but bites her tongue, choking around the words and her fingers dig into her knee so hard it feels like needles.

_RUDE PPL_

Camille snorts at the sudden image of Toben, curled up atop her head and puffed out like he’s just been towelled off, looking like the most adorably furious bundle of feathers. “Yeah,” she agrees, “Rude people.”

Though it’s hardly Ashanti’s fault. And really she’s been nothing but a cordial, if aggressively so, host; even if she had to ask them to leave. LaCour house rules, Camille remembers her saying, somewhere amid the haze and seeing Nyra’s hand bleeding so much.

_“Like punching stone, Jee-hesus.”_

Though the food was good, she supposes. And there were a few nice people hiding in the same nooks as her. And, well, dancing wasn’t so bad. And dancing with Ashanti and Nyra wasn’t entirely awkward —

Her phone buzzes in her lap, and Camille almost drops it. _No pressure, Camille. Kay? ‘S cool if you wanna sit this one out._

She doesn’t mean to look, truly. Curiosity drags her eyes to the window, yet they linger at the sight of Nyra looking up at her, shades atop her head and — and looking calm. Harmless. A polar opposite of how Avaline waits for her to come down to a party — no. Nyra stands out there like she _knows_ Camille won’t come down to join her.

_No pressure,_ her text read, and Camille thinks it’s not the same, throwaway phrase people use when they want to mask the evident pressure they’re pushing on you. No, Nyra means it. Really, really means it.

Her chest warms at the thought, and she quickly texts back — _Yeah, I think it’s better I sit this one out._

The answer is almost immediate — _You do you, girl. I’ll say hi to Ashanti for ya._

Camille looks up in time to catch Nyra’s little mock-salute before she turns to join the others — and Camille realises she’s totally disregarded the group of Dupres waiting before the manor. She also disregards the possibility that Nyra was waiting for her, held them up just so she could ask Camille to join them, because that’s _silly_ , right?

Right.

“Right.”

_RIGHT._ A flap of wings, and a tiny nod. They both watch the group disappear into the woods before Toben hop-turns to look at Camille and tilt his little head. _CAMILLE, WHAT AGREE WITH? IS IT BLUEBERRIES?_

—————

(Camille doesn’t realise she’s fallen asleep on the window sill, head leaning against the glass, phone clutched in her hand and book laying open in her lap, until she’s startled awake by a firm shake on her shoulder. Her hand waves awkwardly so she doesn’t topple over, letting her book slip to the ground with Toben giving a surprised chirp.

_Oh shit Toben!_

Camille’s hand flies to try and catch him, only for her to realise two things: 1) another pair of gloved hands are already holding him, and 2) those gloved hands lead up to a very tall, blonde Severin witch with a freaking eagle on her shoulder, and neither of them look amused.

Also there’s a small, orange-stripped sparrow on the other shoulder, and Camille looks down to see the young witch from the other day hiding behind the blonde witch. Millie, if memory serves. Camille tries to smile, though the girl merely hides further behind the witch.

“Perhaps it’s time to call it a night, miss Camille?” suggests the blond witch, in a voice uncharacteristically soft for such a stern expression. Then again, as Camille gets a better look at her, she looks as if she’s just been woken up.

Camille wants to argue, but a yawn pushes its way past her lips, so she nods in assent, leaving her books by the window and unaware of the moss that had gathered on the other side of the sill.)

—————

Come morning and there’s a large basked filled to the brim with pastries and food lying on the dinner table. Like filled so much Camille’s sure magic is the only thing keeping it from overflowing.

“Wha —?”

“From miss Ashanti,” Silvia supplies, cradling a steaming cup of — jasmine and mint? — and giving the basket an odd look. Or maybe she’s just having trouble waking up, what with the light circles beneath her eyes. “Apparently she thinks you’re nothing but skin and bones.”

There might be a dash of hurt in her tone, a flash of discomfort as she stares — glares? — at the basket. But it fades with a shrug. Silvia takes a sip of her drink, offhandedly adding, “Or so a drunk Nyra insisted.”

“Oh. That’s nice of her. I guess we got breakfast?” At Silvia’s distant hum, she adds, “I’m sure it’ll be almost as good as your waffles and eggs, Silvia.”

It earns her a grin, and Camille watches as Silvia’s shoulders ease up. When she speaks it doesn’t sound like she’s ready to ask the Dupres to burn the basket. “Thank you, dear.”

—————

_“Are you sleeping okay? You sound tired.”_

It’s one of the quieter days in the manor, stiflingly so in the library, so when her phone buzzed with Avaline’s text — they’ve agreed texts are easier than calls; mostly at Camille’s insistence and thankfully Avaline didn’t protest — Camille quickly swiped to call her just to fill in the void.

“I’m fine, Vee,” Camille insists. And yet, as if just to spite her, a yawn bubbles to the surface and she has to clamp her mouth shut less Avaline hears it.

The long, dubious _uh-huuuuuh_ tells Camille she needn’t bother. _“You buried yourself in the library again, didn’t you?”_

“What? No!” Camille glances down at the papers strew across the table, some illegible notes, others diagrams stained with her drool (no point in lying about it, even if her cheeks redden at the thought.) And as Avaline sighs, too dramatically if you ask Camille, her eyes stray to the jacket, neatly folded next to a stack of herbology and incantations books.

It’s neither the first time Camille’s woken up in the library with a jacket draped over her shoulders — a jacket definitely not from her wardrobe and unlike anything she’s seen Silvia wear — nor is it the weirdest thing to greet her after a night in the library, face mushed among her notes and pen staining her fingers. The oddest still has to be two cats and a sparrow, one curled around her right elbow and the other making a nest out of her books with the sparrow curled atop its head.

Two cats she remembers very vividly laying close to the Dupre witches plates during lunch; and the same sparrow with the same orange streak she’s seen tagging along with one of the young gardeners.

_“You’re literally in there, aren’t you?”_ A beat of silence. A sleepy flitter of Toben’s wings. _“Unbelievable. No, wait what am I saying — totally believable! There is a thing called the garden, Cammie. Quite big, last Silvia told me.”_

“Oh yeah it’s great. So big and green and —” Camille squints, looking for any other epithet besides ‘also houses a portal to the LeRoux domain if you know where to look’ because _yikes, you do not want to shove that onto Avaline’s plate_ — “And nice and stuff.”

Avaline snorts — a real one, no traces of those half-coughs she uses to play off her Elegant Young Lady from High Society mask. And it tugs on something in her heart, brings about a wave of loneliness Camille had managed to push below the surface. _“A ringing endorsement.”_

Camille hums, not trusting her voice. She keeps her eyes focused on a frail note, a diagram for a chill ward half-finished beneath her thumb, and ignores a curious chirp on the other side of the table.

_“So if I got in the car and drove over right not, I won’t see you like a vampire from Vampire the Masquerade?”_

“Of course not.” Another chirp, an excited _Masquerade_ hidden beneath the sound _,_ and this time Camille glances up, shooting a small smile Toben’s way. Then she wrinkles her nose. “Maybe a cute one.”

_“Cammie,”_ Avaline sighs exasperated and it shifts Camille’s smile into a grin, washes over her like a balm. Like Avaline’s here, like they’re in Camille’s room and gossiping before a trip to the market. Like everything’s back to normal.

_“Hey.”_ Camille hums. _“You know I’d actually drive over, yeah? Like — literally just say the word and I’d steal my mum’s limo —”_ A dubious hum. _“Okay, not the limo. But like, any half-decent and not totally butt-ugly car and drive over — you already said that Avaline, jesus —”_

_And piss off your mom._ Camille sighs, rubbing her brow to stave off the usual headache she’s come to associate with thinking about Athalie and her rants.

“Avi.”

_“Literally text a ‘hey’ or — okay, not that, that’s too generic, what’s a good code word — apple pie! You hate the stuff. Yes! That’s — I’m a genius —”_

Shoulders shaking, sleeves rolled up and scarred elbows on the table, palm against her forehead and Camille can’t stop the laugh even if she wanted to. And she really, really doesn’t want to. It can echo through the whole manor for all she cares.

“Thank you,” Camille says when the laughter dies down, when Toben hops over and insists on getting some head scratches. Sometimes Camille wonders whether Toben’s picked up a few tricks from the foxes, what with how often he nudges Camille’s hand for a few extra scratches. (Or maybe he’s just making up for the past 8 years.)

_“Remember — apple pie.”_

“Apple pie.” Camille bites her lip to stop the snort. “Love you, Vee.”

_“Love you, Cammie. VtM vamp or not.”_

—————

It’s not that Camille fell asleep in the middle of the woods —

She just lost track of time, practicing the few simple spells Jasmine was kind enough to write down so she can get the hang of the mixed magicka and prevent her runes from spawning an array of wildflowers when they’re supposed to be a _blood_ protection circle. Not that the floral magic would listen to her when she is actually _trying_ to channel it. Oh no, it was like trying to wrestle vines and walking on wet moss barefooted and persuading a cactus to bloom.

_CAMILLE._

So yes, she might’ve gotten carried away. But she definitely didn’t fall asleep, certainly not with her notebook in her lap or underneath an old tree or listening to the sound of Toben happily pecking at the aged bark.

“Rise and shine, princess.” — Echoes somewhere distant and Camille wonders when Toben’s voice had gotten so human-like.

“Hey, Red.” Or when he’d picked up the notion of nicknames. She doubts it’s thanks to that morning she spent all of her learning session trying to get him to call her _Cammie_ and him cheerfully calling her Camille.

“Oi, Red, c’mon.” Wow he’s really improved with the —

Something wet runs over Camille’s face. In the forest. The forest filled with bugs and animals and probably _wet_ animals. The forest where she totally didn’t fall asleep. And absolutely didn’t jump out of her skin with an undignified yelp because _something wet touched her face, ew ew ew_ —

Camille blinks up, brandishing her notebook against her assailant and — is _stupefied_ to find Foxtrot. Foxtrot who’s looking down at her curiously, sitting on her stomach and quite possibly tracking dirt on her shirt. Blinks up and notices his partner giving her the same curious look, mimicked down to the light head-tilt, and sunglasses tipping forward dangerously.

Camille focuses on those sunglasses and not on the fact she totally fell asleep in the forest, literally 15 paces from the swamp. Focuses on those sunglasses so she doesn’t hide behind her book and just tell Nyra to leave her be while mentally reciting the incantation for the ground to literally swallow her.

She definitely closes her eyes and mumbles out _“Those are gonna fall”_ so she doesn’t pay attention to the little, itsy-bitsy traitorous thought whispering _she looks cute tho._

“Well that’s one way to wake up sleeping beauty,” Nyra mumbles, stepping closer. With a flick of her glasses and a click of her tongue, Foxtrot jumps off Camille. But not before pressing his wet nose into her cheek.

“I wasn’t asleep.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I wasn’t,” Camille insists, reluctantly taking the proffered hand. She nearly yelps at the sudden jerk as Nyra all but yanks her to her feet in one fluid motion. Her legs, however, are still partly asleep, so Camille ends up falling forward and almost tackling Nyra to the ground.

She feels rather than hears Nyra’s harsh grunt as the Dupre manages to keep them both upright; arms flying around Camille’s waist and stiffening with effort, and Camille’s beet red face ending up buried in Nyra’s shoulder. And you know what her most poignant thought is in that moment? Not the spew of _Oh shit oh shit oh shit_ or the distant realisation _damn she’s strong_ or the flicker of pain where her book’s pinched between them.

_Cinnamon._

The only thing that lingers with Camille, after she straightens back, after she takes a polite step back and tries to hide her blushing face behind a loose braid of hair, is the fact Nyra smells of cinnamon.

(So hung up is she on that little detail, Camille doesn’t notice the darker shade on Nyra’s face. Or how she fumbles with her sunglasses. Or her nervous cough.)

“Well,” Nyra drawls and Camille glances down at what’s poking her shoulder — oh. Oh, her book, yes that was squished between them. And she totally forgot about it in her hurry to separate from the Dupre witch. Luckily Nyra seems to have caught it before it fell. “I guess this’ better than falling asleep in a stuffy room.”

Camille squints up at Nyra from beneath loose bangs — she really should just redo her braids at this point — but instead of pointing out the obvious implication ( _so it was you_) all she says is, “I just sat down for a spell.”

And she glances down, eyes following her hand as it gestures to her spot below the tree — and pauses. There’s a patch of flowers, purple and with a hint of white, that Camille doesn’t remember being there before. Odd.

_DARK SOON. DON’T LIKE FOREST IN DARK._

Camille nods, and heads toward the manor. A scoff trails after her, telling just how much Nyra believes her. And she kinda expects it, to be honest.

What she doesn’t expect is for Nyra to jog after her until they’re walking side by side. What she doesn’t expect to hear is a soft, if a bit awkward, “Look, I know this summoning is a big deal for you Severin folk —”

“It is,” Camille says, though it comes off more stern than she’d meant. Toben senses it as well, for he stays silent yet Camille can feel the smallest of pecks on the back of her hand (phantom pain, she realises, for Toben is flying above her.) She tries to soften it with a, “Is it not with the Dupres?”

“It’s not the be-all-end-all shit. I mean, you Severins make such a fuss over summoning a fucking _familiar_.” Camille narrows her eyes —a reflex at the mention of summoning familiars more than anything — and Nyra, much to Camille’s surprise, looks sheepish. “No offense to ya.”

Camille glances at Foxtrot, amazed at the ease with which he’s weaving between Nyra’s feet and avoiding them at the same time. “How do you do it then — summon familiars?”

Emerald eyes take on a new shine, and it might be the fading light, but it seems like there’s a literal green fire in them. Then Nyra throws her a toothy grin, flamboyant in the openness of her joy and Camille’s throat dries. “With music of course!”

Camille stares.

“And dancin’. Though if you’re more inclined there’s also the huntin’ —”

“ _Hunting_?” Camille echoes, incredulous, brows disappearing under her loose bangs.

“Yeah. A group of young ones go into the forest to hunt for their familiar. Purely sport mind,” Nyra amends at Camille’s expression. She adds, _“One even managed to wrestle with a lynx”_ probably thinking it’ll lighten the mood, but Camille feels the pit in her stomach grow, feels her arm sting with phantom fingers, nails digging in and an icy hiss of _What is this?_

A nudge against her shoulder shakes the thoughts away, startles the iciness as one does a small cat, and Camille blinks to see Nyra offering her an amicable smile. She notes how Nyra’s standing closer than when they started, her shoulder barely brushing Camille’s, and — yes, that definitely is the same jacket she found in the library this morning. Camille hopes, with the fading light, her blush isn’t too obvious.

“Anyway,” Nyra drawls, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “The point I was going for is — stressing yourself into a stiff plank isn’t gonna help you with your summoning thingamabob.”

Camille squints, brows pressing tight. “A — stiff plank?”

“Yeah. From all that sleepin’ in the library. Like —” And Nyra mimics walking forward like a robot, back straight and shoulder tensed high below her ears and arms pressed firmly against her side and she’s definitely not bending her knees and honestly the only thing she’s missing is saying _beep-boop_.

Camille brings a hand to her face to try and muffle her laugh, but with only the faint buzzing of bugs, Nyra can hear her clear as day. A part of her likes to think the wild grin stretching over freckled cheeks is Camille’s doing, but a bigger part of her hushes the thought down with very vehement series of _nope nope nope nope_.

And of course that’s when the rain decided to hit, as if the universe is literally telling her to _chill_.

—————

By the time they reach the manor, the rain has gone from a drizzle into a shower, and Silvia’s waiting for them with blankets at the ready. And it’s not until Silvia’s very curious look that Camille remembers Nyra handed (well, threw) Camille her jacket with an offhand _“No point in both of us getting wet.”_ And truly if Camille looks at how drenched Nyra is, she (and Toben who had hidden himself in one of the inner pockets) looks like she wasn’t in the rain in comparison.

And Camille wants to argue, as Foxtrot shakes water off himself and Nyra combs back her wet hair, that Nyra shouldn’t have given her jacket away but stops. Stops because she realise one glaring, red-alarm inducing detail.

You see at some point during their mad dash through the forest, sometime after Nyra offered her jacket and the drizzle became a legitimate shower, it became hard to differentiate hard soil and a bundle of roots. And Camille may or may not have tripped over soil that turned out to be roots, and Nyra is the only reason she stayed upright, shooting a hand out and rapping her fingers around Camille’s.

But that’s not what’s gotten her so riled up. Because the detail is: She’s still _holding Nyra’s hand_.

And Silvia definitely saw.

Even if she didn’t, the way Camille drops her hands, the way her face heats up, no doubt as bright red as her hair, the way Nyra casts a confused glance at the now empty hand, is very super-duper bloody telling.

Thankfully Silvia doesn’t say anything as Camille storms inside, absentmindedly taking one of the blankets, and all but cashes into the tall blonde witch carrying a tray of —

“Tea?” Camille asks, as if she’s never seen a tray filled with cups of steaming tea. The blonde witch — and Camille should really ask for her name — merely hums in agreement, and continues on into one of the sitting rooms. A sitting room filled with other Severin and Dupre witches — most covered in blankets and holding tea, while some have taken to blow drying their hair and/or familiars. The rain sounds distant.

And Camille, standing by the large glass double doors, barely touching the doorknob, one hands fisting the jacket so it stays on her shoulders, is struck with the sense of how _homey_ it all looks.

She’s startled out of her reverie when a young girl, bundled up in a towel covered in rainbow birds, all but skips toward her and asks, “Do you think you could braid my hair like that?”

Camille blinks at her for a moment — two, three — before there a judge from inside the jacket, and she remember she should actually answer the kid, geez.

“Sure.” And Camille’s sure the grin the girl gives her is mirrored on her face.

—————

(She can’t tell you exactly how braiding one little girl’s hair turned into an all-out line to braid and style each other’s hair with her at the epicentre. But she got to see Nyra with ridiculously large pink ribbons in her hair and Sloan with purple, sparkling hairpins and ended up having thin ribbons running down her bangs, so she’s not complaining.

Even if she nearly got half her hair shaved off for suggesting they put glitter in Nyra’s hair.

And yes, she totally sent pictures to Avaline, her phone buzzing with a long series of laughing and adorable gifs.

_Wait, omg does this mean you cut your hair????_

Camille sent a selfie, her normal braids replaced with a loose, over the shoulder one and several colourful ribbons peeking out of the end.

_Sorry, nope_ , she texts. Her fingers wander to the end ribbon, flick the purple and turquoise cloth, her mind wandering to Sloan meticulously braiding it, huffing and clicking next to Camille all because Nyra said she didn’t know to braid _for shit_.

_“How’s this for shit, Ashhead,”_ Sloan had challenged, all but presenting Camille’s new braid. Yet when she looked over, Nyra blinks as if she’s seeing her for the first time, as if she’s waking from a daze. The look, the choked out sound, linger with Camille, clear as day even hours later.

_Boooo but also you’re adorbs._ A beat, a half-written _Thanks_ before her phone buzzes again. _How’re you holding up with the Dupres?_

Camille’s eyes stray past the table where Soot trying to figure out a four-half-filled glasses puzzle, past the colourful kitchen door and beyond the armchair half-blocking it. Linger on the little circle of girls and familiars surrounding Nyra and another Dupre — TJ, she thinks. Surrounding them and engrossed in whatever tale they’re spinning, coupled with Nyra making wild gestures and TJ miming big teeth and claws.

Startles when TJ replaces claws with little fire figures, walking along their arm and — Camille’s heart nearly stops when the little figures jump from them to Nyra’s shoulder, a part of her worrying they’ll fall on the floor and set the carpet alight and it’ll — it’ll —

_Run, Camille!_

_CAW!_

Camille blinks and feels Soot tugging on her sleeve. When she looks back to the sitting room, Nyra’s flicking one of the figures, blinking it out of existence. The others follow like dominoes, dissipating along Nyra’s shoulders until there’s none left and Camille remembers to breathe. _No fire. Not again._

_Breathe._

_CAW-CAW!_

Soot insists, butting his head against her elbow, and — _oh,_ he solved the puzzle; the nut lying next to a glass filled with three little weights.

“I guess you’ve earned a treat.” Camille runs her fingers along his back, earning a happy click. “Now where does Silvia keep them?”

She doesn’t even finish the question, barely lets her fingers slide off Soot, before he’s hopping to one of the cupboards, waving his wings emphatically. If she didn’t know better, she’d think she’s staring at Avaline’s Blanc.

_They’re not all that bad,_ Camille texts back, Soot happily munching and the joyous laughter swirling around her like music.)

—————

(Her phone rings not two seconds later, Avaline’s face flashing on her screen, a memory of simpler times that still manages to bring a smile to Camille’s face.

_“Okay, who are you and why are you possessing my friend?”_ Avaline starts without missing a beat, rushing to say everything in one breath and Camille laughs and laughs and laughs.)

—————

You know, Camille thought getting woken up by a horrendous alarm every morning was the worst way to wake up. Like the worst way to ease yourself out of sleep every morning, with her heart literally catapulting into her throat and wanting to yeet the phone out the window 9 out of 10 times.

But when Foxtrot literally lands on her stomach with all of his weight, and announces his landing with an overly loud yip —like right in Camille’s face, in case she didn’t hear him or something — Camille would rather be woken up by her horrendous alarm. At least her alarm doesn’t nip at her fingers when she tries to shoo it away. Or tries to nuzzle his wet nose into her neck when she turns over.

And definitely doesn’t outright drag her blanket down in retaliation for being ignored.

“What is wrong with you?” With a groan, Camille sits up in her bed, shoving hair out of her face. She pretty sure even in the near pitch-black night, Foxtrot can see her glare. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was grinning at her, but that could be her sleepy mind adding new layers to the ‘Foxes are just trickster gods’ discussion she had before going to bed.

Foxtrot leans on the edge of the bed, and nips at the back of Camille’s fingers. Camille takes 0.5 seconds to ponder whether it’s rude, before deciding _fuck it_ and flicking Foxtrot on the nose. This just leads to him tugging at her blanket again, literally not allowing her to go back to sleep.

“Okay. Okay! Do you need to go _outside_?” And if Camille had ever seen a pair of golden orbs give the most incredulous and offended vibes, Foxtrot is giving them. With a chuff, he vanishes out the room, his paws scraping against the wooden floor.

Camille shrugs, and leans over to drag the blanket back. Then the sound of paws scraping returns. She looks up to see two gold orbs staring back at her, only to disappear with an insistent yip.

_LOOKED WORRIED. MAYBE WE FOLLOW?_

Camille looks at Toben askance, and she feels rather than sees her familiar give her the closes approximation of a shrug, curled as he is on the other pillow. (She didn’t have the heart to put him back in his cage, or even ask him to spend the night outside her window. Not after spending 8 years without even seeing him.) With an exasperated sound, Camille kicks away the blankets.

“Trickster gods, I swear,” she grumbles, blindly looking for her boots before Toben nudges her, phone held in his beak. “Thanks, Tobs.”

_TRICKSTER GODS_ — he agrees happily.

—————

Foxtrot waits for them at the end of the hall, tail weaving against the pillars of the balustrade, only to skip down when it seems they’ll follow him, and dash out the main entrance once they catch him in the lobby.

“I swear if you get lost in the forest, I’m not looking for you,” Camille grumbles as she carefully closes the main door without it creaking. Toben given and unhappy chirp and Camille sighs, aiming her phone’s flashlight to follow Foxtrot. “Okay, maybe I would. But I’d be very unhappy about it.”

_NO LOSE FOX. NYRA WOULD BE SAD._

“Yeah,” Camille echoes, and pushes down the part of her that’s ready to analyse exactly why the thought leaves her throat tight and a low rumble in her stomach. _Follow the fox trickster, self-analyse emotions in the morning._

There are many things Camille expects to see as Foxtrot leads them to one of the side paths around the manor, well beyond the trimmed grass and replanted rose bushes. Her fingers tighten around her phone when she recognises the path to the greenhouse — or what’s left of it — and she’s silently cursing him. But Foxtrot continues forward, ignoring it entirely. Ignoring it in favour of an old tree, one of the few that managed to recover and grow after the fire; dropping down in front of the large trunk and giving a few happy yips.

Camille squints, a question formed at the tip of her tongue when an irritated and all too familiar voice comes from the tree — “I sad get help and you brought _her?_ Do you want me to die, you asshole?!”

So Camille expected the fox to lead them to any number of things. Seeing a disgruntled Nyra stuck and tangled in a tree definitely wasn’t among those things, and yet, frustrated and — embarrassed? Shy? She can’t tell — emerald eyes peek amid the branches. And Camille is having a very hard time not laughing at the sight.

“Laugh it up, princess. ‘S fine, I got all night.” And it sounds like Nyra tries to move, but there’s snapping and something tearing and for a cold moment Camille thinks Nyra might’ve tugged on the wrong thing and end up tumbling down. But there’s another rustle and a very emphatic _Shit balls_ and no Nyra on the ground.

“You all right up there?” Camille asks, moving her phone until she can illuminate Nyra amid the branches.

“Peachy, Red.” Nyra tugs one of her tangles arms and if she was tangled before, somehow she’s gotten even more tangled despite being closer to the base branches.

“How did you even get up there?”

Foxtrot gives a few yips, moving closer so he can leans his front paws on the bark. But it’s Nyra who answers, “No, it’s absolutely not ’cause I was dared by a little red devil.”

At first Camille thinks it’s about Foxtrot, but when the familiar gives her something akin to a deadpan look, her mind goes to the other little red devil. And she’s pretty sure 3 in the morning is well past that little LeRoux’s bedtime.

“Do you need help?”

Nyra scoffs. “Well since he dragged you all the way out here, I suppose a ladder wouldn’t hurt.”

She goes for a shrug, but Nyra’s arms are so tangled she barely manages half that, leaving her arms in an awkward position. And the defeated sigh is what spurs Camille to action, has her leave her phone on the ground so it illuminates her path, and with a soft prayer to her younger self, starts climbing.

It’s surprisingly easy to reach Nyra, and at times Camille things the bark shifts to accommodate her grasp. But then she nearly slips on a patch of moss and yanks on one of the vines holding Nyra, earning a startled hiss. “Easy there, milady.”

It’s not until Camille’s sitting on an adjacent branch, fingers lodged into the mess of vines right next to Nyra’s head that Camille realises she actually doesn’t have a plan on how to get her out of here. Well, she has an idea — a theory, rather. But it depends on her _other_ magic, relies on it listening for once and not bursting through the pots like manic fertilizer and rushing up her blood, lingering beneath her skin like an itch.

_“It’s not like controlling water. It’s — I guess it’s like herding a bunch of ducklings. You can suggest where it’ll go. Coax. Soothe. Bribe, I suppose,”_ Harriet had said when Camille failed to stop the grass from blooming over her diagram.

_Soothe._ Camille bites her lip, leaning closer so she can grip the vines with both hands. She thinks of Athalie’s fingers around her forearm, of her always trying to tug Camille along, recalls the bruises left afterward and shudders. _Soothe,_ she repeats and eases her fingers so they’re not crushing the vines.

_Coax._ Camille swallows. She’s pointedly aware how close she is to Nyra, how she can practically hear every ragged exhale, how if Nyra were able to move her hand, she could touch Camille’s bare elbow. How doing this is very dangerous, and not just physically.

_She’ll know. After this she’ll know and I won’t be able to hide it and — and she could tell Ashanti and it would all be over._

_SHE WON’T. NYRA’S NICE —_ Toben assures in the back of her mind, and it feels like he’s right on her shoulder, feathers against her cheek, a low hum she’s come to associate with him. _TRUST, CAMILLE._

Camille inhales, closes her eyes and starts whispering, so low she can barely hear it. Whispering little compliments to the vines, asking little favours, suggesting where the light would be and _oh, wouldn’t that improve your shade even more?_ And _Why spend so much energy holding her when you can curl around the higher branches?_

_Coax,_ echoes in her mind, so Camille does, until the vines shift beneath her fingers, until they graze her knuckles like a parting touch. Until she feels a different touch, a different _warmer_ touch curl around her elbow — then shift up up up until its wrapped around her shoulders — until she blinks to see nothing but brown locks, until she hears an exhale right next to her ear.

Until she hears a rough, “Well, I’ll be.”

Her concentration holds until then, and the tree _knows_. Camille can’t explain how, but she’s certain, for the branch shifts beneath her and they both tumble down with a shriek.

_No no no no no no_ — And Camille shoots out a hand, fingers scrapping against bark, digging enough to draw blood, while another pain stings and scrapes down her shoulder. _C’mon. C’mon, you don’t let fruit fall._

And just as suddenly as the branch disappeared underneath them does a softness greet them, practically curls around them like a pillow, like an embrace. It’s only as they’re dropped onto the wet grass that Camille realises it was a pillow of leaves. Realises two very real branches had scooped them up and were now shifting back into place. And it’s almost enough for her to forget the weight against her front, to forget where her other hand is.

Almost, but with a breathy _Shit_ against her shoulder and a sting along her left arm, Camille’s painfully reminded she’s literally clutching Nyra. She just hopes the night is dark enough to hide her face —

Toben, chooses then to fly over with Camille’s phone clutched in his feet and all but blind her with the flashlight.

“Oh God, Tobs, why. Shut it off.” Camille groans, hands covering her face. It’s a small mercy Nyra rolls off her, so Camille can curl on her side and away from the light. The mercy ends when something wet licks at her hands and Camille raises a hand to keep Foxtrot at bay.

“Holy shit,” Nyra exhales somewhere above her, and Camille breathes a sigh of relief when the glaring light stops. She moves a hand off her face, the one Foxtrot isn’t busy licking, and wrinkles her nose at the way her shoulder stings, the way her shirt uncomfortably sticks to her skin.

She barely manages to sit up when a hand lands on her shoulder and Camille has to bite back a hiss. Fingers map out the literal river of fire stinging Camille’s shoulder before they skip to her front.

“Shit, I did a number on your shoulder.” Camille squints up, and nearly jumps back, surprised at how close Nyra is. Flashlight in hand, leaves in her mussy hair and Toben sitting atop, both of them peering over Camille’s shoulder.

_Oh — oh the stinging._ Nyra must’ve dug her nails and then they _fell._

“It’s fine,” Camille says, but bites her lip when Nyra tugs on her shirt, like pulling needless out of her skin. She wheezes out, “I can fix it with a spell.”

“Not like this ya ain’t.”

“It’s fine —”

“It’s not, Camille.” And Camille’s mouth dries at how serious Nyra looks, at the way her lips press into a thin line and her brows furrow and — are those circles beneath her eyes? It’s hard to tell with the light pointed behind Camille’s back. “I did this. The least I could do is clean your wound.”

And Camille has an argument — or a tired sound or just the breath of _Enough, please_ , she’s not sure yet — high in her throat, but one look from Nyra and it tumbles back down.

—————

It’s a short walk back (with Nyra holding onto Camille’s hand, just so they don’t lose each other in the dark) and one clumsy trial and error trying to get Camille’s shirt off without aggravating the wound further only for them to get so frustrated Nyra found a pair of scissors and cut the left side.

Never mind that she got even more frustrated manoeuvring the phone’s flashlight (because they forgot turning on lights is a thing) and literally turned on a lightbulb with a snap of her fingers. _“What — electricity is a form of fire, kay?”_

Camille imagines the lightbulb flashing to life as red, hot stinging pain flashing from her shoulder, and she digs her teeth into her bottom lip to stop a whimper. It’s safe to say her nails have left marks where they’re lodged into her thighs.

“Breathe, Red,” Nyra murmurs, so close to her scarred shoulder Camille feels a shudder run through her.

“I am _breathing_ ,” Camille bites back through clenched teeth.

“Like actual breathing. You know — inhale, exhale, that stuff.” Camille shoots a glare over her shoulder but Nyra merely raises her brow in challenge. With a huff, careful not to tug on her shoulder, Camille turns back, closes her eyes and tries to count her breaths.

_Inhale. 1 —2 — 3 —_

Nyra’s thumb is rubbing circles over her other shoulder.

_4 — 5 — 6 —_

Toben’s in her lap, gently pecking her fingers, easing them off her thighs.

_Exhale._

Stinging, _mother-of-god_ pain shoots from her shoulder and Camille’s _this_ close to hitting something. And her back’s pulsing so bad Camille thinks she feels another touch on her shoulder. Light and fleeting and suddenly her back’s not pulsing anymore, doesn’t feel like she’s got the mother of all fires beneath her skin.

“Warn a girl next time,” Camille breathes, carefully testing her left arm, numb finger by numb finger. She frowns at the light tremor in it.

“I’ve found it helps none, actually.” The thumb stills on her other shoulder and out of the corner of her eyes Camille can see Nyra leaning close, eyes bright in the low light. “Need anythin’ for the spell?”

_Theoretically, just my blood._ “I could use a second opinion. Since I’m doing this blind and I’ve never —” Camille confesses, throat going dry at the thought _I’ve never ran a spell on my back, not since the fire._

Fingers tighten on her shoulder, a comforting pressure rather than a reprimanding dig, before they fade. “All right. Ready when you are, princess.” A beat. “Speaking of which, where did you learn to climb like that?”

Camille snort-scoffs and botches the start of the incantation. “Right here.”

She breathes in and starts again, brows tugging low at the feeling of flesh stitching itself together and yet the pinch of magic keeping it from doing so completely. Drags her tongue along the roof of her mouth at the sizzle lingering on the edge of scarred flesh, but pushes through another repetition of the incantation, just to be sure.

“Really?” There’s a light tap along where the wound was. Camille’s shoulders sag when there’s no pain. “Lil princess climbed trees?”

“Yep. More than you apparently,” Camille teases, shooting Nyra a grin as the Dupre strolls to the other side, arms crosses low and a dramatically surprised expression on her face.

“Right for the jugular. I think the tree was more merciful, Red. Vines and all.” And Nyra flashes her a toothy grin, but it falls flat at the reminder of the vines, of what Camille did. Of what she revealed.

“About what you saw. About —” Camille starts, wetting her lips to give herself time to think. _Trust,_ Toben had said. Trust a Dupre with something she didn’t even gather the courage to speak with Silva about, or mention to Avaline. Camille’s heart drums in her ears, beats low in her throat and her hands are sweating.

“About the vine thing —”

“About me being a LeRoux —”

They both start and stop at the same time, and when Camille looks over her shoulder, Nyra looks like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. Or rather, like she’s just been handed a solution and realisation is slowly dawning on her.

“You know, that actually makes more sense than what I figured,” Nyra says, utterly nonchalant.

“What —” Camille swallows. “What did you figure?”

A beat.

“That the Severins feed blood to their plants.”

Camille blinks, speechless. She just — she just stares at Nyra, her forehead hurting with how hard her brows have gone up, and just let the silence swell between them. Nyra busies herself with packing up the first aid kit, and — is she _blushing_?

“It’s not that far-fetched, okay?”

“It kinda is.” Camille hears herself saying, voice surprisingly calm, what with the way her hands are curled on her lap. “I mean — my hair is red and I literally whispered to a tree to let us down.”

“Dyes are a thing, princess. And yeah, before you ask, there is a shade like yours.” And, okay, when she puts it like that, it does make _red hair therefore she’s a LeRoux_ a less immediate conclusion.

And Camille’s gone and blurted it out anyway, needlessly exposed herself. Blurted away a week’s worth of self-control and doubts and silence — blurted it all out to a Dupre — to _Nyra_ , the Dupre matriarch’s Second — a girl she barely knows a week if at that —

_Trust_ , echoes in the back of her mind.

Camille nearly yelps at the touch on her uncovered shoulder, a pinkie running along the edge of scarred flesh, and Camille snaps her eyes to Nyra and her mind just stops. Stops because the look Nyra’s giving her is the softest she’s ever seen the Dupre (and yes, that’s including the sight of her stuffing her face at the LaCour buffet table) and Camille feels her heart beat for a completely different reason.

“Your secret’s safe with me, Camille.” And Nyra raises her left hand, pinkie and middle finger curled. “Lil Fireling’s honour.”

_Trust_ , rings in her ears. Camille clears her throat and asks as innocently as she can, “You were a girl scout?”

It lasts all of three seconds before she bursts out laughing at the image of young Nyra wearing girl scout badges and bonnets and selling cookies or even having a lemonade stand.

“Hey, shut up, I was adorable!”

“I’m sure you were,” Camille manages, half-muffled by her hand.

“You bet your pretty red hair I was.” Camille’s face heats at the compliment but her attention’s snatched by Nyra shoving her phone, a picture of a miniature Nyra, hair tied into a single braid and freckles just as prominent, giving a toothy grin and holding her badges on display.

And Nyra’s right, she was damn right adorable. It does nothing to dampen Camille’s laugh, though Nyra’s guffaw is close behind. And Camille doesn’t realise Nyra’s sitting next to her, shoulder to shoulder, until the girl throws an arm around Camille’s head so she can show her yet more Fireling Nyra pictures — and there are even ones with Foxtrot wearing the Fireling bonnet.

—————

(“Camille, what happened to your shirt?” Silvia asks over breakfast.

“I fell out of a tree,” Camille says casually, even as Nyra nearly chokes on her cereal and Silvia definitely sputters with her tea. And maybe that’s not the best thing to say when you’re trying to keep the whole plant magic from your cousin, but that’s a problem for completely-awake-Camille.)

—————

“Camille?” Silvia touched her shoulder gently, stopping Camille right before the stairs. “Follow me, please. I’d like your help with something.”

That had been four hallways and three corners ago, and Camille still hasn’t been able to puzzle out exactly what Silvia would need her help with. Certainly not chores, otherwise she’d be way less tight-lipped and mysterious about them. So her studies then? Or the — the Summoning?

A part of her freezes with the possibility of Silvia knowing — about her father’s magic, about visiting the LeRoux, about her sprouting grass from her blood. Terrified that Silvia will confront her about it — I mean, they’ve passed all the familiar nooks and parts of the manor, and firmly entered uncharted territory as far as Camille’s concerned.

_BREATHE. WOULD HAVE SAID SOONER, NO? WOULD SAY OUTRIGHT, YES?_

_Discretion is in the Severin blood as much as magic,_ Camille thinks, hands fisting her skirt.

_SILVIA NOT JUDGE. NICE. KIND. ARGUES WITH ICY LADY._

“Camille.” Camille starts, snapping up to look at Silvia only to turn her gaze at the door she’s holding open for her and _oh._ It’s one of the atriums, with huge circling windows and seats by the windows and so much space she and Chloe used to chase each other for hours. She can even picture it — them, younger and smaller, not a care in the world except to hide the mud tracks from their mother and not break any of the windows — laughing, happy, free —

A touch on her back startles her, and the two little red-haired girls fade, leaving behind a few young witches — Severin, from the number of bird familiars — all furiously drawing with red chalk and grumbling and their familiars cawing. Paired up by the looks of it.

“I figured we might as well put those scribbles to use,” Silvia says next to her, quiet in the low murmur of witches. And Camille doesn’t need to see Silvia to hear the smirk in her voice, “Add some practical knowledge to all those books you’ve been reading.”

She catches movement out of the corner of her eye, and Camille follows it, eyes landing on a smaller girl, curled on one of the window seats, several diagrams crossed out on the ground around her. Her face was hidden in her knees, a magpie hopping anxiously around her and it hits Camille like a pitcher of ice water.

The girl doesn’t have a partner.

“Francesca’s been having difficulties with her runework.” Silvia says plainly, though she doesn’t quite manage to hide the worried undertones. “Do you think you can help?”

She didn’t even have to ask really. One look at the girl, at how she shifts her elbow so the magpie can curl into her little safe space, and Camille’s already nodding. Already moving to the other side of the room, back straight and determined. Already crouching down by the girl, and offering a quiet _Hello there._

Anxiety be damned. Plant magic be damned as well. If helping this girl — this girl who peeks out so shyly, who despite obviously crying whispers back a hoarse _Hullo_ — if helping her exposes her LeRoux heritage, then so be it. But she won’t let this girl feel even a sliver of the loneliness Camille felt.

And if that meant Camille had to deal with an overly cuddly magpie; ended up with more red chalk along her arms, her folded sleeves, even her face; meant she ended up explaining the similarities between calligraphy and runework to seven girls with Toben as her assistant, then so be it.

And if ended up getting more chalk on her shirt, along with a very much rambling bundle that is one Francesca Severin, well, that’s all right too.

—————

By the time she reaches the kitchen, way behind the girl since _somebody_ actually had to clean the floors, Camille’s sure everyone had eaten lunch already.

You can imagine her surprise then — and exasperation — at seeing Nyra sitting by the dining table, absentmindedly eating lunch. Now triple that and you’d get Camille’s expression at seeing Nyra sitting by the dining table covered in _ash_.

“What happened to you?” Camille asks, leaning against the closest chair.

“What happened to your shirt?” Nyra counters, flicking her fork.

Camille forces herself not to look down at her shirt, fingers tightening in the chair. “I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It so is a thing.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“Uh-huh, it is.”

“Oh come — really?” Camille raises her brows in disbelief, head tilted in response to the toothy grin Nyra’s giving her, white teeth more prominent given the ash all over Nyra’s face. It makes her eyes stand out too, but Camille’s not going to follow that thought, nope. Nuh-uh.

She’s just going to meet Nyra’s stare head on until she relents. Because, though stubborn as Camille’s learned, Nyra will relent. At some point.

No, she’s not being childish about this. A Severin wouldn’t be caught dead being childish, thank you very much. She’s just meeting a challenge head on. It wouldn’t do for a Severin to back down from a challenge, least of all from a Dupre —

Toben tries to steal a large piece of lettuce from Nyra’s bowl, and it’s distracting enough to catch Nyra’s attention and, okay, _fine_ , maybe Camille let’s out a too vehement _Ah-ha!_ Nyra groans, facepalming and it only leaves more ash on her face.

“Oh that’s dirty, Red.” Nyra waves her fork, eyes narrowing but definitely not stopping Toben from picking the seeds off his hard-won lettuce leaf. “Using your familiar to distract me.”

“Me?” And okay, sure, Camille pitches her voice a bit higher, plays along with Nyra’s little hum. But it hardly means _anything_. “He’s his own person. Or, er, bird. Demon. Bird.”

_MY OWN BIRD —_ Toben chirps. Yet Nyra still glares at him disbelieving, even pokes him with a finger in warning. Though with how quickly her mask breaks — truly all it takes is one happy flap of Toben’s wings, and the sight most certainly isn’t adorable — Camille doesn’t think there was an ounce of sincerity in it to begin with.

“I was practicing some spells.” Camille blinks, suddenly aware she was staring. If Nyra notices, she doesn’t show it, merely leaning back in her chair and casually gesturing to herself. “’S why I look like a chimney.”

She lets her hand drag over, twirling as it points to Camille’s shirt. _Oh right that_. “Rune practice with the kids.”

Nyra tilts her head, brow raised and grin turning lopsided. “Were they practicin’ on you?”

“No,” Camille shoots back, and it’s in that moment she remembers why she even entered the kitchen. And while she’s looking for a plate, her face turns even hotter, her chest practically burns, when she catches a faint whisper of _Shame._

_What the hell is that supposed to mean?_

—————

(“Why were you awake last night?” Camille asks. _Being awake at 3am to answer a dare from an alleged red devil isn’t something one does outside of being drunk, and you definitely didn’t have drunk buddies around_ , she doesn’t say, but it lingers in the air. Nyra knows it lingers, eyes snapping to Camille, searching, calculating. Holding everything back it leaves Camille puzzled.

“Insomnia,” Nyra says at last, eyes quickly darting down to her salad. And the silence, the way her shoulders remain tense, the way she’s playing with her food — all of it strikes Camille as _wrong._ )

—————

(But she takes a bite of her meal and doesn’t press.)

—————

_She can still smell the ash._

_Choking, heavy, all-encompassing, dragging her down into the dirt and pushing still._

_She can still see the flames._

_Bright, so bright they burned her eyes. So bright they singe along her back, tearing what little she has left, as if to take her._

_Her ears still ring with the voices —_

_“Run run run run”_

_“Camille!”_

_“If it isn’t the Severin runt —”_

_And the fire — bleeding red and leaving naught but charred husks — morphs into a stifling room, the flames changing into faceless silhouettes. Faceless yet she’s sure they’re all staring at her. Faceless yet she can read their sneer, hear the snark dripping off their words as clear as they choke her._

_The poor thing —_

_I heard she could even summon a proper demon —_

_Truly a disgrace —_

_No, get stuck in her throat, gurgles up to her lips yet what she spits out is murky water, the same shade around her feet, seeping between her toes, clinging to her clothes like vines. She tries to swim, tries to move but her feet are rooted, dig deeper into the muck while the silhouettes come closer, loom over and higher like menacing tress — like the forest and slither like snakes and snap like alligators —_

_Abandoned. Unloved. Unwanted._

_“No,” Camille screams, but the water drags her under, fills her lungs and claws into her chest, pulling down down down_

_Into the depths. Into the muck._

_Cold. Searing. Dark. Blinding. Alone. No —_

_She squints at an echoing hiss, blinks through the darkness, and sees a pair of eyes as darker still, sees them split into two and coil around Avaline and Nyra. Slither and coil and mock._

_Should’ve just burned —_

_Slither and coil and crush._

_No no no no no no no —_

Camille wakes with a jolt, pain pulsing from her temple and nauseous. It takes her a moment to orient herself, to recognise the pastel walls in the dark and not the murky waters; to categorise the distant flapping and tapping as that of a woodpecker and not of water snapping in her ears. To note the words are in Toben’s concerned chime and not — not —

_Toben. My room. The mansion._

_It was just a dream._

Takes her even longer to realise she’s on the floor, legs still tangled in her blanket and fingers tight on her pillow. Tight enough to tear, and she lets go, less she replaces yet another pillow. She doesn’t think Silvia will take kindly to Camille going through four pillows in about twice as many days.

_Just a dream._

_CAMILLE._

She inhales, holds it as she counts back from fifteen, fingers moving to her sore temple. _13 —12 — 11 — 10 — 9 —_

_CAMILLE? FELL FROM NEST?_

_Exhale._

“Yeah,” she croaks. With a few wayward taps, Camille finds her phone on the nightstand. It’s another few taps before she has it unlocked and is already speed-dialling Avaline, her back against the nightstand. It’s when Avaline answers with a tired, _Cammie,_ that Camille remembers it’s the dead of night and Avaline is _sleeping_ and _you just woke her up, congratulations Camille you fucked that up too —_

_“Cammie, what’s wrong?”_ Avaline’s voice sounds clearer, worry tickling along the edges.

“Nothing. I just —” Camille bites her lip, blinking at the dark room, willing her heart to stop drumming below her tongue. “I just — I had a dream and — and I thought — I couldn’t.”

_“Okay.”_ Camille nearly chokes at the sound. _“It’s okay, Cammie. It was just a dream. You’re fine. Okay? You’re all right, you’re not — wherever that dream was, okay?”_

Camille hums, fingers tugging at her bangs. Distantly she hears a flutter of wings, but doesn’t register it as Toben until he lands on one bent knee. Land but quickly slides down her leg so he can get as close as possible, giving a comforting chirp.

_“Do you want me to find the list? Just so we’re sure —”_

_Just so we’re sure it’s not prophetic._ Camille nods before she realises Avaline can’t see her. “Yeah that — yeah, okay.”

Honestly the last thing she needs is a prophetic dream about the swamp taking her family and friends. That is what they are, right? Friends? Her and Lilinyra Dupre?

She focuses on Avaline’s voice, on her words, but her mind wanders to Nyra’s toothy grins, to the weight of her arm as she drapes it over Camille’s shoulders, to the way freckles stand out on her dark skin, to the way her eyes linger on Camille when she thinks Camille isn’t looking, to —

Yeah. Yeah, Camille thinks they’re friends.

—————

(That’s not the right word, but it works.

Sorta. Kinda.)

—————

She finds Nyra in the kitchen, the light above the stove casting a sharp shadow over her face and Camille nearly hits the doorframe, her feet going weak with the phantom memory of murky water and vines and a hiss _dead dead dead —_

But Nyra turns to her, eyes practically glowing in the dark and not at all glassy or blank or sea-sullied and Camille inhales a breath, forcing her teeth to unclench, forcing her legs forward, forcing her fingers off the weathered wood, _you won’t drown, it’s fine, it’s just the kitchen_.

_Breathe._

“So, dinner?” Camille snaps her head up from the sink, and does a double take at the plate Nyra’s offering — a plate of burnt toast. Her eyes dart to the toaster and, yep, it’s still busted. Busted and unplugged.

“Or,” —her eyes dart back to emerald, linger on the way the shadows play at the edges of Nyra’s lips — “is it early enough to be breakfast, you reckon?”

Camille gives the plate one last glance before clearing her throat. “I — tea. Tea’s better.”

She ducks around Nyra to reach the kettle, humming curiously when she finds it already filled with water, and studiously reminds herself that Nyra isn’t pouting. It’s just the light playing tricks on her. Camille also reasons Nyra’s odd glances have nothing to do with worry. Urges her mind to stay on the important bits — cup, honey, kettle, tea, sip — go back to your room and hunt for what little hours of sleep remains —

“Insomnia, again?” Camille finds herself asking. She swirls the tea in her cup, busies her other hand with stirring the honey proper, so she doesn’t facepalm herself into the next morning because _really, Camille._

She nearly misses Nyra’s hum. Well, as nearly as one hyper-aware of Nyra separating new, fresh slices of bread, tongue sticking out — or, just, y’know, hyper-aware of Nyra in general. Which she should _stop_. Even if that hum only rekindles an earlier suspicion, pings at that sense of _wrong_ with Nyra’s sudden late night escapades —

“Does it happen often?”

“Nah. Yeah. Nah. I mean —” And Nyra must see the scepticism on Camille’s face, from one glance no less, for she lets out a long and deep sigh, hands stilling on the counter. Nyra stares at them — her hands — for so long, Camille thinks she’ll drop the matter entirely, but no. No, instead she says, in a voice quiet and strained, and Camille’s reminded of a fox’s low growl. “Nah — only when you get so stressed over things you’re supposed to do — Second to the Matriarch things, y’know?”

Camille doesn’t, but she can hazard a guess.

“And so —” Nyra clicks her tongue. “Instead of practicin’ doing them, you procrastinate and then lose sleep and procrastinate even more and it all goes fucking hunky-dory!”

Camille didn’t realise when Nyra had taken the pieces of bread between her hands. But a faint spark draws her eyes, snaps Nyra out of her stupor, and they watch as dark bits of would-be toast crumble from between Nyra’s fingers. Nyra drops the burnt toast, and yep, it’s much like the other pieces.

“Sorry. I —” A sigh, and Camille’s hand moves to stop Nyra from rubbing her darkened fingers over her eyes but she’s too slow, so her hand hangs awkwardly in the air. “Sorry. One of these days I’m not gonna burn this toast.”

“Why not use the toaster?”

“It’s busted. TJ busted it,” Nyra blurts out, hurries to blurt it out. And it’s telling, more so when Nyra refuses to look at her, focuses on making PB&J sandwiches despite the toast being overly done.

The _Uh-huh_ is at the tip of Camille’s tongue, but Nyra turns abruptly, a large stain of jam on her cheek, a stark purple against the low light, definitely matching the jam on the knife she’s twirling toward Camille with — yup, burnt fingers and yet somehow covered in peanut butter —

“You want one?” Nyra asks. Camille glances down at the burnt toast, overflowing with jam and messy with peanut butter — not proportioned at all — looks back at jam-stained cheek and butter-flecked fingers and nods without really thinking.

—————

She thinks it’s the end of it, once the sandwiches are made, jam leaking from the sides and butter staining Camille’s fingers and the sweetness making her teeth tingle. Thinks Nyra will pick up her plate and continue on with her procrastination, and leave Camille to collect herself for another bout of maybe-hopefully-actual sleep.

Yet Nyra flops onto the counter, disregarding the crumbs or cleaning her fingers or packing the remaining toast properly, and mumbles out between a mouthful, “Sooo, nightmare?”

Camille glances down at her plate. Her brows furrow at the speck of orange beyond her plate. Sure enough there’s a curious Foxtrot sitting before her feet, eagerly looking at her plate.

“Do. Not,” Nyra bites out, but her finger’s raised at Foxtrot, eyes squinting and overall trying to look as threatening as possible. It might’ve worked. If, y’know, she didn’t still have jam on her cheek. “You ate a whole bowl of chips, you lil shit. No —” She wags her finger at Foxtrot’s — Camille supposes it’s as close to innocent eyes as she’s seen on a fox. “I saw you. You were literally lying in my lap when you ate it. So cut it with the faux puppy-slash-fox eyes.”

Foxtrot turns his puppy-slash-fox eyes on Camille.

“I’ll take away your pillow,” Nyra adds, and with a yip Foxtrot bolts out of the kitchen, leaving only a dust cloud where he sat. Camille feels herself smiling into her next bite. She almost forgot about the question.

Nyra clears her throat.

_Almost_.

“Yeah,” Camille confesses. The lethargy returns with that one single word, slips over her shoulders like a wet cloak, and stinks of bog water and tightens around her like vines.

“Wanna talk about it?”

Camille swallows down the bite with effort and reminds herself it doesn’t taste like ash and smoke. It’s an innocent question, barely above a whisper in the dark, reminiscent of the light hanging above them. Camille shakes her head, voice stuck in her throat like peanut butter and she washes it down with lukewarm tea, and swears her fingers don’t shake. (They do. So much she’s sure Nyra notices; must notice how the cup clinks against the counter; how her nails go _tink_ — _tink—tink_ against the rim.)

She catches Nyra’s nod in the edge of her vision, unobscured by pigtails for once, Camille having tied her hair in a loose pony tail instead. For a moment Camille thinks Nyra will leave, has lingered only for this, to be sure out of some obligation or —

_Or maybe because she’s nice? Maybe because that’s what friends do, and — and you’re friends, right?_

Nyra slides off the counter with ease and grace not unlike a cat, and — lingers, teeth digging into her bottom lip, Camille’s eyes zeroing in on a sharper canine peeking out. Camille’s suddenly aware of the warmth close to her hand and she looks down to see Nyra’s hand lying conspicuously near Camille’s cup. And Nyra really does run warmer if Camille can sense her warmth without even touching her. Yet if she moved her pinkie and ring finger off the cup, she’s be touching the warmth.

_Maybe maybe maybe_

“— or you could procrastinate with me?” She blinks out of her stupor, her mind jumping through hoops to find the whole context but, but it slips on the latest hoop of Nyra glancing at her nervously, cheeks definitely darker in the dim light and the still has bloody jam on her cheek and _adorable adorable adorable_ —

Needless to say Camille’s agreeing before her voice even registers in her ears.

—————

Camille jolts at the touch against her forehead, blinks down to find a red blanket draped over her and Nyra — a blanket they definitely left on the other sofa. Turns and almost swallows a mouthful of brown hair. Snores poke through the fog and belatedly Camille remembers curling closer to the warmth, somewhere between the first and second episode of the North Wall arc — or maybe sooner, since Nyra did hog the bowl of popcorn, made well after the PB&J sandwiches were done for.

Squints and shifts only for the weight on her lap to wiggle with a chuff. Lets her eyes follow the orange and white tail sticking from beyond the blanket and remembers _Say goodbye to your legs, princess. Once he’s asleep, you’re pretty much done for._

Squints at the freckled cheeks, and she could swear she still feels jam on her fingers, could still feel the giggle in her chest after five episodes and Nyra still hadn’t figured jam was still on her cheek; could still see the light wrinkle of Nyra’s nose and hear the mumbled _Well, that’s just embarrassin’._

And swears Nyra’s eyes follow her finger as Camille licks away the jam; swears just as her eyes fall to parted lips, snoring lightly and thinking _maybe maybe maybe_ —

“Camille, you want to help with breakfast or just continue on pretending to sleep?” Silvia’s voice rings clear from the hall and Camille practically flies off the sofa with a startled _Itwasn’tmeIswear_

(Nyra, it seems is a hard enough sleeper to ignore Camille’s outburst and just slides down onto the freed space. Curls up on her side and grumbles something or other but is still very much adorable — _asleep_. She meant asleep.)

—————

(Restlessness follows her through making breakfast, skips along her shoulder when she hurriedly eats, snaps at the edges of her fingers as she takes the stairs two at a time to change for the day. It tickles at her concentration, shifts one word for the other until Camille’s left re-reading the same paragraph for a fourth time and _she’s had enough._

Millie still jumps when she spots Camille in the garden, though she doesn’t bolt for the other side so Camille counts it as a win. She also barely stutters when she explains the different plants and their care — her voice soothing and patient and Camille feels the itch dissipate.

But she catches one look at a still groggy Nyra, jogging around the manor with her familiar in tow, and the pot in Camille’s hand pricks her with magicked thorns.)

—————

“So… You and Nyra.”

Camille has wondered what Silvia does when she’s not tutoring the young Severins or keeping the mansion in order. More than once but, well, it’s rude to ask outright. She figured it might have something to do with keeping the Dupre witches company/out of trouble; or maybe perfecting a new spell or incantation or something else.

Painting — that’s what Silvia does. In a small room, cosied up along one part of the attic, stuffed to the brim with boxes of paints and canvases — both covered and not — and a single easel and stool poised in the middle. It’s deliberate, Camille realises, sitting by the small window — the positioning, just beyond the window that no one from outside could guess there’s someone in here yet still centred so the canvas is flooded with light.

Camille tilts her head, trying to figure out who’s on the canvas. Her mind wanders back to the portraits lining the halls, how they haven’t aged a day in the past 8 years and, yeah, someone had to freshen them up. And no, it’s not because she’s ignoring Silvia’s implied question, hoping the woman will drop it and whatever else was supposed to lead up to the question.

But Silvia lowers her paint brush and gives Camille a pointed look, her scar particularly prominent in the morning light and _okay, so much for that._

“She’s nice. Or trying to be. Her words,” Camille adds quickly at Silvia’s raised brow, only she feels like she’s only fed into Silvia’s curiosity. Camille turns back to the window, and mumbles into her bent elbow, “Mending bridges.”

“Is that what the kids call falling asleep on the couch after too many episodes of anime and PB&J? We’re behind the times, Soot.” Camille knows burying her face further into her elbow isn’t helping her case but it _is_ hiding her blush so she’ll take what she can get.

“Hey.” Camille peeks from her hiding place only to feel something wet slide over her forehead —

“Silvia, no! That better not be paint!” But it is. Silvia’s orange-stained fingers linger obviously in the air, a wide, teasing grin on her face. It makes her look young. Reminds Camille of all the afternoons Silvia spent drawing with her and Chloe instead of doing her reading. Remembers how Chloe drew three lines over Silvia’s other eye — _so you match, and look like a fearsome barbarian!_

It gives Camille an idea, and she snatches Silvia’s brush. In one quick move Camille leaves a green stripe over Silvia’s cheek. Her proud smile lasts all of a second, Silvia’s face shifting from shock to a challenging glint Camille definitely doesn’t like but is all too familiar with. She barely blocks an offending jab of orange fingers with her palm, and blindly swipes with her brush and that’s basically how she started a paint war.

Correction, how _Silvia_ started it. Because she totally did, that first swipe was a declaration.

_WE’RE PB AND J_ — Toben chirps, and when he lands on the top of the easel, he definitely has purple spots and one wing _is_ covered in brow-gold paint and oh dear that’s going to be a nightmare to wash out.

“I’m glad you’re friends,” Silvia says, sitting on a few boxes — not paints, Camille hopes. They’re both covered in a literal rainbow enough as it is, with Silvia sporting a bright yellow stripe in her hair. It’s almost as bright as her smile, almost as warm as her expression and Camille feels a strong urge to hug her.

_Oh what the hell, shirt be damned._

“I was worried, when they first got here. Worried you’d close up; worried they’d bring back bad memories,” Silvia whispers into Camille’s hair, arms flexing around Camille’s shoulders for a moment before they shift, and if possible, Camille feels even snugger against Silvia. “I’m glad I was wrong.”

She thinks about telling her then — about her father, about the unfamiliar magic prickling at her fingers, about the _thing_ she nearly summoned. Thinks about showing Silvia her father’s journal of spells and telling her the LeRoux matriarch is her grandmother and just laying it all bare. But.

But it would ruin the mood. Remind them both why Camille’s stuck there in the first place. Remind her she actually has to make both magics work somehow. Remind them of all the things they’ve ignored while having something as silly as a paint war. And they deserve this don’t they? One moment of peace. One moment of silliness. One moment to be an actual _family_.

So instead, Camille tightens her fingers around the now sprouting paint brush, and confesses: “I’m glad, too.”

—————

The first thing Camille hears is music. Slow, with a strong bass and undertones of a piano. It tickles a memory at the back of her mind, a phantom twinge in her feet and a faint _one-two, one-two_ , but it’s just beyond her reach. Toben shoots off toward the source of the music with a quick flap of his wings, and if Camille was hesitant to explore the music’s source, her familiar’s taken that with him.

He’s quick, and Camille finds herself running through the part of the floor reserved for their Dupre guests, easily marked by the number of cats and the mess of pillows surrounding them Camille has to avoid. She nearly trips on a grey cat chasing a fake mouse, and catches herself on the doorframe to her left, and _hey Toben’s on the door handle and oh this is where the music’s coming from —_

And her mind goes blank. Not because the music’s switched to a lighter song, nor from the way the afternoon light is pouring through the windows and practically basking Nyra in an ethereal glow; nor from the way Nyra’s moving through her room, pillow held close as a stand-in partner; nor because watching Nyra dance brings about the memory of her own lessons.

No it’s none of those things. What has Camille’s mind stopping is how _wrong_ Nyra’s dancing the foxtrot.

(Okay, maybe — possible — definitely the way Nyra’s mesmerising while still managing to fail the basic steps of the foxtrot _does_ play a role in stealing Camille’s thoughts and making her heart do flips in her throat and has her fingers clutch at the doorframe. But only, like 10%.)

“Your form’s off,” Camille says. And maybe she should’ve waited when Nyra’s back isn’t turned to her, so the girl can see there is actually someone at the door. Instead of, y’know, startling her so much she nearly jumped on the table, pillow poised to be throw.

“Fucking sparkling firecrackers, don’t _do that_ , Red!” Nyra lowers the pillow, palm on her chest, and Camille bites back a grin because Nyra’s shirt is covered in paw prints. “You could’ve gotten a pillow to the head.”

“ _Flaming_ pillow to the head?”

“Undecided.” Emerald eyes dart down, Nyra’s lips slowly quirking, and Camille remembers her shirt is still covered in paint. “Might clash with your whole ‘got a rainbow puked on me’ aesthetic. Which, mind, is big mood.”

“Why are you dancing foxtrot with a pillow?” Camille asks, trying to mask her blush.

“Because there’s only so much of Sloan’s teasing a girl can take.” Nyra moves over to her bed, and Camille just notices her phone’s the source of the music — discarded next to a curled up Foxtrot. “And TJ has two left feet too many for my poor toes.”

Camille can’t tell you why her mind zeroes in on the fact Nyra is dancing barefoot, but it might have everything to do with the choice of leggings and _that_ is a road Camille would rather not wander down so she blurts out, “I could help.”

And maybe it wouldn’t sound so _poignant_ if Nyra didn’t pick that moment to stop the music, so really Camille’s words are deafening in the empty room and she swears it’s gotten hotter in there and _oh God why did you say that, you wanted danced since you were twelve, shit shit shit._

“Really?”

_In for a penny, in for a pound._ “Yes.”

And the smile that blooms on Nyra’s face has Camille’s heart doing flips in her throat again.

—————

It takes them a bit to get the hang of it — toes are stepped on, Camille’s hands are clammy in a way that has nothing to do with Nyra’s warmth and everything to do with their closeness; she has to supress a flinch every time Nyra’s hands come close to her back; and the way Nyra’s tongue pokes out when she’s focusing on where her feet are is _very_ distracting.

But when they do, it’s nothing like dancing with her at the LaCour party, nothing like the patchwork of sensations she remembers through a cloud of alcohol. Less chaotic — sharper, clearer and when the music lulls, very much _closer_. And yet there are similarities — the way Nyra’s eyes shine, the confident grin shifting her freckles, and the way she ends the song with a twirl, leaning Camille down with an arm scorching against her back and fingers practically burning into her waist and Camille feels breathless.

“You’re pretty good at this,” Nyra comments, once they return to the starting position, waiting for the playlist to reset. There’s a hint of reverence mixed with the surprise. “I figured you’d be more of a waltz girl. For all those fancy stuck-up parties.”

“There are fancy stuck-up people who dance the foxtrot,” Camille points out, not unkindly, eyes darting to check on Toben — and yep, he’s still hopping next to the phone, matching the rhythm. “But I do like it more. Easier.”

She glances back at the faint snort, but her brows tug together at the odd smile on Nyra’s face. It’s small and soft and almost — adoring? But Nyra flips their positions to avoid the wardrobe; and when Camille blinks away the light, the smile’s gone, faded into a more comfortable, familiar grin. Yet Camille eyes linger, even as Nyra looks down at their feet, brows furrowing in concentration. And now that Camille thinks about it, Nyra has been really focused on getting this right, has hung on every word of Camille’s explanations and jumped immediately on practicing every step.

Camille squints, blows a loose hair out of her face and asks, “Is this what you were procrastinating?”

The way Nyra’s eyes snap up, nearly wide as an owl’s, the way her cheeks darken, are telling even before her guilty smile, one sharp canine tugging on her lower lip. Still not to outdo herself, Nyra drawls out _Maybe_ and spins Camille around in a way that has nothing to do with foxtrot and everything to do with pressing Camille’s back to her front and it. Is. Distracting.

_Focus, Camille._

Okay but Nyra is literally _right there_ , like her breath is literally next to Camille’s ear, the smell of cinnamon practically wrapping around her, and if she were to turn just a sliver to the left —

_Focus, you useless lesbian._

“—Not like that, you lil traitor,” Nyra hisses, and Camille blinks out of her stupor; blinks back to see Foxtrot rolled over on his back, tail wagging and barking out quick beats. Almost like he’s arguing with Nyra. Another few barks and Nyra’s fingers tighten around Camille’s — when had she interlocked them? _What_ — and Nyra sighs. “Okay. _Fine._ So perhaps the ‘maybe’ is closer to a ‘yeah.’ There, happy now you ginger hellion?”

Foxtrot sticks out his tongue, twisting rightside-up and waving his paw at Toben — who’s still hopping and chirping to the music. There’s a click next to her throat, and Camille feels more than hears a rumble of a laugh before, with a twirl, she’s facing Nyra proper again.

“So.” Camille starts, wetting her dry lips. She lets Nyra tug her closer — not like before, sadly — and lets her sway them for a bit, all pretence of dancing the foxtrot gone. “Second to the Dupre Matriarch Things involve dancing.”

Nyra snorts, eyes falling down to where their fingers are locked together. “The Second’s supposed to guide young’uns for the summoning. Customs. Words. _Moves._ ”

_(“How do you summon familiars then?”_

_“With dancin’.”)_

“And, I’m actually present this year for the summoning. So —” Nyra huffs, and her face morphs into a helpless expression that tugs on something in Camille’s chest, has her fingers squeeze Nyra’s in comfort.

“I understand.” Nyra’s eyes dart up, searching. Camille meets them head on, her lips twisting into a rueful smile, and slowly, Nyra’s lips twitch up.

“Yeah, suppose you do, princess.” And it looks like she’s ready to say something else but the song changes, quick upbeat synths cutting through the afternoon light, and Nyra’s face practically lights up. “Oh, this is my _jam!_ C’mon, Red.”

—————

(Her first mistake was not checking the caller ID before answering her phone.

The second was the way her voice cracked at her aunt’s pointed _Are you making progress, dear?_ Cracking at the coldness of _dear_. Like a brush of frozen fingers along her wrist, like a shadow beyond her shoulder.

“I am, aunt Athalie.”

_“Good. Because you are aware of the opportunity you’re given. Unprecedented, I’d say. And —”_ a tink. _“One shouldn’t squander opportunities from one’s goodwill, Camille.”_

And it sounds like it’s not the first time she’s said it, sounds frustrated as if she’s been repeating herself already, so Camille swallows down the pressure and simply says, “I understand, auntie. I won’t.”

_“See that you_ _don’t_ ,” her auntie says and the call ends, as if she sensed young Francesca had wandered up to her room to announce dinner. Camille stares at her phone, fingers tight in her paint-stained rag. She tells Francesca she’ll be skipping dinner, and pretends her disappointed pout doesn’t hurt as much.)

—————

_“So let me get this straight —”_ Avaline starts only to cut herself off with a thoughtful noise. _“Or lesbian? Is she a lesbian? Gay,”_ she decides, and Camille can imagine her nodding to herself. _“Let’s go with gay — Ahem. Let me get this gay: you two danced in her room, to some slow music —”_

“It wasn’t slow.”

_“Whatever. In my mind it was slow, and the room was cosy and the afternoon light was all golden and shit and you literally danced. In her room. To like, serenade worthy music.”_

“Again, not serenade worthy —”

_“Camille.”_

“…Yes?” Camille winces at her own voice, and readjusts her grip on her folder — yes, her research has gotten so big, Iridi (the blonde witch; Camille finally asked for her name) gave her a folder to hold all her notes and diagrams.

_“Camille. That sounds like the most romantic shit. What the hell girl?!”_

“I don’t know — I mean it’s not like that — I was just fixing her form!”

A snort. _“Oh, yeah, absolutely. Hey quick question: would you say her form is hot?”_

Camille rolls her eyes so hard she thinks of her mother’s _They might get stuck_ , cheeks burning. “It is _not_ like that!”

_“It is a valid question. I mean she looked really hot during that lil slumber party you guys had, but then again her clothes were wet so —”_ Camille groans. _“Hey, I’m just trying to collect all the facts, Cammie. It’s not every day you dance with someone out of the blue.”_

“I am going to hang up now,” Camille deadpans. Avaline’s pouty _Nuuuuuu_ follows her as she rounds to corner to her room — only to stop at the sight of papers and _feathers_ littering before her door. Her very much open door. The same door she remembers closing so the Dupre cats don’t tumble in her sheets.

And Camille’s ready to chalk it up to _Trickster god shenanigans_ only to hear Nyra cursing from her room and a few literal _growls_ and _what?_ “I really am going to have to call you back, Avi.”

_“Ooooh, is it another romantic dance session —”_

“Okay, no, love you, bye.” Camille hangs up before Avaline hears the frustrated groan Nyra lets out, because she does _not_ need more fuel to that fire. And she very much doubts Avaline would believe her if she told her the groan was because Nyra is wrestling Foxtrot over a pillow, feathers flying everywhere and both of them somehow tangled in Camille’s sheets. And it might be endearing. Funny even. If it wasn’t 1 in the morning.

“What. Are. You. Doing?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Nyra starts but quickly dissolves into another argument with Foxtrot, and Camille presses fingers into her temple to stave off a headache.

Because this is _not_ something she wants to deal with at 1 in the fucking morning, after four hours of fruitless reading, splitting her concentration between words and keeping her table from growing thorns or moss or growing over her notes and assuring Toben everything is fine, she’s got this. Pretending it’s not for herself because —

_You’re slipping, Severin_

Because because because

_“I promise that Camille will be successful.”_

_NOT SLIPPING_. Camille starts, nearly forgetting Toben’s on her shoulder until she feels feathers rub nudge beneath her jaw. _TRYING YOUR BEST. BESTEST BEST. ICY LADY CAN STUFF IT._

Camille snorts into her palm, drags her fingers down her face before turning so her chin rubs along Toben’s head. “Thanks, Tobs.” She casts a furtive glance and yep, Nyra is still arguing with Foxtrot, though she’s gotten the torn pillow from him. “Do you know what they’re arguing about?”

_NYRA DANCING PILLOW. FOX LOVES PILLOW. FIND HELP, SAVE PILLOW._

_And ended up here_ , goes unsaid, but Camille hears it loud and clear, and it does nothing to push back the headache (or calm the burning on the back of her neck.) Camille rubs her eyes, and blinks to find Nyra suddenly close and feathers in her hair and a chagrined expression on her face.

“Camille, I am so so sorry.” She emphasises the words with her hands, causing more feathers to slip out of the pillow, and has her biting her lip. “I will clean this up — no, _we_ —” she throws a glance at Foxtrot. “Will clean this up.”

_Yip._

“We will.”

_Yip yip._

“Foxtrot —”

“Stop,” Camille sighs out. She ignores Nyra’s surprise, ignores how her eyes follow her as she goes over to the wardrobe and takes out the extra pillows Silvia snuck in a while ago. And she ignores how her shirt feels uncomfortable when she bends down to scoop Foxtrot up, eyes burning into the back of her neck.

Ignores it all to stand before Nyra, holding out a pillow with a fox laying on said pillow, and it’s too bloody late and she’s too bloody tired be self-conscious. She waits for Nyra to collect her jaw, waits for the Dupre to take the pillow, before she speaks.

“You —” She pokes Foxtrot in the nose. “No more stealing pillows. And you —” she presses her finger to Nyra’s sternum. “No more dancing with pillows. Get some sleep.”

“But —”

“Sleep,” Camille insists, and suddenly all the confidence slips away as quick as it arrived, leaving a void for tiredness to sink in. Sleep sounds pretty good, right about now — _Focus._ Camille blinks. “Sleep. And tomorrow I’ll help you out with your dances.”

“You will?”

_You will?_

_WE WILL?_

“Yes.” Camille nods because what the heck. Turning the table into a literal tree from stress isn’t going to get her any closer to perfecting the summoning, and — and it was nice dancing with Nyra. More than nice. And Camille can be selfish this one time, can’t she?

Nyra frowns. “But what about the whole Summoning thing?”

“Well someone did tell me stressing myself into a stiff plank isn’t gonna help, so.” Camille shrugs helplessly, and feels a smile blooming at Nyra’s startled laugh, feels her heart doing those flips again.

Belatedly she remembers to remove her hand, but Nyra catches it. Fingers curling around her wrist, only to slip down, dance along her palm till Nyra’s thumb’s circling Camille’s knuckles; and the smile Nyra gives her — toothy and wide and nearly glowing with warmth — dries up her throat.

“Thank you, Camille.”

And Camille’s not sure what leaves her reeling — the words, the voice or the quick peck Nyra leaves on her knuckles before she’s out of the room.

—————

It becomes a thing — Nyra practicing her dances and Camille acting as her partner. Or as a mutual student more times than not, she supposes. Classical dances she’s versed in, but add a bunch of different types of jives and Camille’s left dizzy from more than just closeness alone.

And okay maybe they have to repeat the dance moves a few times more than necessary, but in Camille’s defence it’s difficult to concentrate when your dance partner makes adorable faces as she’s demonstrating, or the way her freckles resemble constellations if the light’s just right.

And okay so maybe Camille catches herself focusing on Nyra’s little giggles more than the music, or the way her nose scrunches up self-consciously after she tells a bad pun; and maybe it ends up with her yelps as Nyra suddenly spins her or drags her closer, and okay so maybe they nearly fall like a dozen times, and Camille definitely apologises every time and Nyra definitely laughs away her apologies, shooting her a kind grin and —

“Careful there, princess,” is breathed into her hair, Camille’s face pressed into Nyra’s neck, and she’s never felt so calm when surrounded by warmth before, never felt so relaxed with someone’s hands around her shoulders and a shiver runs down her back and those same hands shift down, start to rub up and down her back, a faint _You cold?_ and —

_Oh._

Oh, she’s in trouble, isn’t she?

“Hold up,” Nyra says, hands dropping from Camille and gesturing for her to turn around. In two quick moves Camille’s braids are undone and she feels Nyra comb her hair back into a new, single braid. Just when she thinks Nyra’s done, her fingers are flicked away with a click of the tongue and Camille feels the braid bundled up into a bun, low on her head.

“There, much better,” Nyra says once Camille turns back. Nyra’s eyes dance over her face appraisingly, and Camille’s hand goes instinctively to the new braid, running her fingers over the pattern. (A nervous tick she hasn’t gotten rid of.) But then a smile tugs on Nyra’s lip, her eyes going soft with adoration and Camille’s breath hitches.

“It’s a shame to hide behind your hair,” Nyra confesses as she takes Camille’s hands again, nudging until they’re back in the starting position. And if Camille wasn’t red before, the whispered _Especially that lovely smile_ has her as red as her hair and her heart dancing the jive right below her jaw and —

Scratch that. She’s in _deep_ trouble.

—————

There’s a buzzing somewhere to her left. Camille doesn’t look at her phone, doesn’t even open her eyes to find it. Just pats her pillow blindly until it falls into her hand, answers the call with a flick of her thumb and a sleepy, “Vee?”

It’s the third time today Avaline’s calling her, each one as heated as the last and each one because of something Athalie’s done. And each time Camille wanted to suggest Avaline just take a break from the city — take a break from aunt Athalie, really, but Avaline’s not going to listen to that. And yet every time she’s bitten her tongue, knowing Athalie’s retributions are cold but sharp and will leave Avaline worse off than before.

But tonight Avaline’s voice is _shaking_ , and Camille swears she can hear how hard Avaline’s holding her phone, and she absolutely hates the odd sniffle Avaline’s trying to hide. Hates how Avaline, who’s been her backbone, who’s endured the sharpest of Athalie’s lessons so Camille wouldn’t even though she _should_ , sounds like she’s crumbling. Hates it hates it hates it —

“Apple pie.”

Avaline stops, a jumble of words just abruptly clogging up and Camille’s sure the she can hear her crow in the background. For a startling moment she thinks Avaline’s gone, that her mother found her out and dragged her away to another lecture but there’s a sniff, followed by a confused, _What?_ and Camille breathes out.

“Apple pie. Like, stuffed with cinnamon and from that ridiculously overpriced place you like so much —”

_“They have perfectly reasonable prices.”_

Camille snorts. “Sure, Avi. Just —” _Just get out of there._ “I mean it.”

_“I get it, I get it. But, hey, can you have Silvia maybe not accidentally hex me? Because that sounds like something she’d do to an unannounced car coming to the driveway at —”_ a beat. _“However the fuck early it is. Cool?”_

“Cool, yeah, definitely no hexing,” Camille mumbles. There’s rustling and the sound of several bags falling and there’s definitely keys rustling somewhere in between all of that, and Camille lets out the breath she’s been holding.

—————

(Avaline arrives 30 minutes later, definitely 20 minutes sooner than she should’ve. Camille pushes aside the reprimand for speeding, especially so late. No, she’d much rather hug Avaline, practically wrap her in the blanket she’s manages to drag down the stairs without falling.

“I hate her sometimes,” Avaline whispers into Camille’s shoulder, fingers digging into Camille’s back without thinking, and she’s shaking.

“I know,” Camille shushes, dragging her inside. She thinks about dragging them both back up the stairs, but one glance toward the left living room and the faint light poking from the hall has her guiding Avaline away from the stairs.

Nyra shoots them a worried glance — well, shoots _Camille_ a worried glance, really — and rearranges the mess on the couch so there’s room for all three of them. Even tries to dump Foxtrot on the other sofa, only for the fox to jump back and wiggle between Avaline and Nyra, head buried in Avaline’s lap with a content yip.

“Should I start from the beginning?” Nyra wiggles the remote, eyes dancing between Avaline and Camille.

“’S fine. He’s gonna die in the next scene anyway.” Avaline shifts so she’s practically a burrito in the middle of the couch, head on Camille’s shoulder, one hand wrapped around Camille’s, and the other buried in Foxtrot’s fur.

“Oi, spoilers!”

Avaline turns her head, and Camille has a clear view of the _bitch please_ face she’s making. “It’s ancient. You should’ve seen it already.”

There’s movement out of the corner of her eyes, and when Camille looks out the window, she could’ve sworn she saw Soot perched on one of the low branches. But she blinks and he’s gone.)

—————

(Camille pretends she doesn’t hear Silvia argue over the phone. Pretends she doesn’t hear Soot caw and croak with her, as if he’ll intimidate Athalie through the phone. Pretends she doesn’t hold her breath when it all falls silent. Pretend but fails to hide a relieved sigh when she hears _A week’s better than nothing, right Soot?_

Pretends as her hand tightens around Avaline’s back. Pretends as Avaline presses a sleepy gurgle into her stomach, pillow long abandoned on the floor. Pretends while turning her head so it’s hidden in Nyra’s shoulder. Pretends as she falls asleep to the sound of Nyra’s snores.)

—————

When it’s time to practice the rigorous motions of ballet, Camille’s more than happy to let Avaline take the reins, offers a sympathetic smile whenever Nyra throws her a pleading look or mouths _Save me_. (And when Avaline glances between them with a pointed brow, Camille hopes her shrug is innocent enough.)

And when their dance sessions have gathered enough attention to warrant an audience of younger Severins, Camille finds herself disappointed a bit. She’s happy to see Nyra dance with the girls, even finds herself laughing at the chaos, but a part of her pricks with a gloom. Pokes her heart with an acidic tang and Camille more than once catches fingers digging into her palms.

Yet that same part practically coos when Nyra interrupts her research session to drag her off under the guise of needing to freshen up on _my fancy moves, Red; can’t get rusty now can I?_ Camille does offer a meagre resistance, gesturing to the tomes and notes littering her table. Even though all it takes is one pout, one playful tug of fingers, and/or one pointed kick in the shins from Avaline, for it to crumble.

And Camille can’t find it in herself to mind all that much. (Kicks in the shins included.)

—————

When she wakes with nausea, Camille chalks it up to another heavy night and the crick in her neck. Pushes it aside along with the itch beneath her skin. Assures Toben she’s fine, nothing tea won’t fix.

She should’ve known better.

It rears its ugly head a few hours later, has her pausing mid explanation on a particular combination of runes and chalk to swallow it down. It lurches again when she summons her magics, like a punch in the gut and a burn on the back of her throat and she feels _sick_ , her hands are heavy and _burning_ and it’s like she’s walking through sludge in the sweltering heat and —

Camille doesn’t remember falling on her knees, much less puking out a patch of grass and dirt. All she remembers is the itching and the pressure in her chest and the burn along her arms and a worried call —

The next thing she knows, she’s bolting upright in bed — the movement so jarring, she nearly pukes right then and there. But a hand presses against her shoulder, another pair grab onto her left, fingers intertwining with hers, a mix of _Hey_ and _Easy there_ and _Breathe_ and _We gotcha, princess_ and Camille pushes through it. Inhales and exhales. Eyes focused on her sheets, on the patchwork of red and blue and dark purple and, _oh_ , this isn’t her blanket —

A glass of water comes into focus. Slowly Camille’s eyes follow it up up up until she’s looking at three familiar scars and grey eyes filled with a mix of worry and relief and understanding and _She knows,_ Camille finds herself thinking. Yet instead of dread, instead of the gnawing pit consuming her from the inside, instead of her arms going numb from the chill because _Silvia knows, she knows, she has to, she will_ —

Relief — that’s what Camille feels.

Relief, as she carefully takes the proffered glass. Relief as Avaline leans against her side, brings their joint hands into her lap and repeats _breathe_. Relief when the other hand gives her a comforting squeeze, and Camille looks up to find emerald eyes flashing with worry yet matched with a soothing toothy grin.

Relief as she leans against the headboard — finally recognising the room as Silvia’s — and tells them everything —her father, the _thing_ she nearly summoned, the haunting thing — _everything._

(And through it all there’s a hand tight in hers, thumb running over her wrist, and another, warmer, rubbing soothing patters against her shoulder.)

—————

“I’ll summon a demon,” Camille assures, after another glass of water, staring at her hands against the patchwork blanket, at how pale they are in comparison. “I — I won’t fail. I won’t tarnish the family name or —”

There’s a cacophony of _Cammie, no_ and _The hell with that_ and _Fuck the Summoning_ but a flash of movement breaks through it all, and Camille blinks only to find herself pulled into a tight hug. Lavender and dew and something so specifically Silvia hits her nose and Camille buries herself in it, hands shakily moving to Silvia’s back.

“You’re more important than the family name,” Silvia insists, her voice hard and yet kind. “Or a bloody demon or the Summoning or anything else Athalie throws under _obligations_ and bullshit. You _matter_ , Camille.” Her voice cracks, and her arms tighten around Camille’s shoulders.

“And I’m sorry.” Camille hears, between her hiccups, feels it pressed against her temple, and she swears Silvia’s voice sounds like she feels. “I’m so so sorry I made you think otherwise.”

_It’s wasn’t you, Silvia_ , she’ll say afterward. But first comes the crying. She thinks she’s well overdue for a good cry on the shoulder.

—————

It gets easier after.

Silvia’s adamant on asking the LeRoux’s for any insight, which in turn leads to a lil red devil practically buzzing around the manor and the manor in general buzzing from both Dupre and LeRoux guests. Avaline’s practically glued to her laptop, 20 + tabs on different types would-be and maybe records of witches with multiple magics. So glued, Camille catches her one night browsing the internet with her _glasses_ — the same thin-framed, blocky things she vowed never to use and threw away like half a dozen times.

And Nyra has taken it upon herself to pester Camille for breaks — be it a dancing session; or just to solve a dispute over a very plot-heavy spoilerific thing between her and TJ — same dispute Camille can’t resolve without both of the Dupres explaining the entire premise of the show which results in all three of them bingeing the show so Camille can get the _mood_ and the _feels, she can’t make a judgement without the feels_ and yet this has turned into a movie night and —

And Camille wakes with a crick in her neck, head pillowed against the couch, Avaline and TJ and Rowena sprawled on said couch, and Nyra’s head in Camille’s lap, practically drooling and yet looking so adorably calm Camille’s heart is drumming in her ears —

And _yes,_ it’s definitely easier.

—————

She doesn’t know when the dreams start.

(That is a lie, but one she’ll tell herself a thousand times.)

All she knows is a heat so different from the one haunting her back, her arms, it might as well be night and day. Knows its warmth simmering beneath the surface, leaving her fingers twitching, her core burning, pushing her _forward forward forward_ instead of choking her, instead of dragging her back by its claws.

Knows of a grin — a lopsided, toothy grin with canines longer than her own — flickering under the low light, knows the way it shifts dark freckles beneath sharp, molten emerald eyes. Knows how it makes her throat clog, how it steals her breath and makes the back of her neck burn something fierce. Knows how the faint dust of freckles catches her eyes, practically a magic in and of itself.

Knows it starts with fingers, sturdy yet loose around her own, starts with callouses slipping between her fingers and skin running warmer than her own pressed against her palms. Starts with an innocent swipe, skirting the line where her shirt’s ridden up. Starts with a breath against her ear, tickling along her neck, a mere suggestion of a touch.

Starts with Camille’s fingers mapping out the freckles on her shoulder, carefully dancing up along her neck. Starts with nails scraping along the back of her neck, teasing the short hairs there. Starts with them sliding through dark tresses.

With a nose barely touching her own. With green eyes hazy and full of such promises they leave Camille weak and wanting.

Starts — dares — with a _purr_ , _“Feisty, princess.”_

It starts with lips crashing together, with a fire sizzling along Camille’s tongue and burning its way through her. Starts with her fingers tightening in dark locks and a growl pressed into her lips. Starts with the hint of sharp canines dragging along her tongue and her on hips shifting forward to chase it.

It ends with those same teeth dragging along her neck, with that same tongue soothing afterward. Ends with Camille in her lap, pressed so close there’s not even a suggestion of space. Ends with nails dragging along her back, shifting through scars it leaves her burning and has her press forward and back and —

_“Camille,”_ she growls against her skin and —

And Camille wakes with a moan pressed into her pillow and a wetness between her thighs.

“Shit,” Camille breathes, and buries her face into her pillow, stifling a long and frustrated groan. This won’t do at all.

—————

(It especially won’t do thinking about that dream while helping Nyra practice dancing. Like really, really super won’t do, _Camille get a grip._

“You okay there, Red?”

“Uh-huh,” Camille insists. If Nyra asks Camille can attribute her red face on exertion and the obnoxiously humid day it’s been. Mercifully she doesn’t ask, and Camille only fumbles half of the steps.)

—————

“I might have a crush,” Camille whispers, chin on her elbows, and eyes engrossed in the way Nyra’s wrestling with the young Severin girls. Well young Severins and one loud Rowena. It started off as Nyra showing off a new trick, but quickly dissolved into chaos. The good kind of chaos. The kind that has you grinning and shaking your head.

Avaline hums curiously, only for silence to fill in for a heartbeat — two, four, six —

“Oh.” Camille shoots her a glance and yes, Avaline is looking at Nyra, recognition flashing on her face. Camille blinks and Avaline’s lips twists into a teasing grin, and she nudges Camille with her shoulder. “I could’ve told you that a week ago, Cammie.”

Camille turns back, buries her burning face in her elbows and grumbles something incoherent. She expect Avaline to tease her further, but she merely loops her arm around Camille’s shoulder, and whispers conspirative, “So how’re you gonna woo miss Dupre Second over there?”

Camille snorts. “Why? She’s way out of my league.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not.”

“Rubbish. That’s what I’m hearing. Rubbish. Rubbish. Rubbish.” And Avaline highlights each enunciation with a pat against Camille’s shoulder. She even jabs her finger into Camille’s side — once, twice, going for thrice but Camille catches her wrist, leaning back against her with a wry smile on her face.

“You, Camille Severin are a delight. An Avaline Severin approved delight.” Camille giggles at the thought of Avaline making a stamp for such a thing; her giggles intensifying into a full blown laugh at the horrible English accent Avaline puts on to say, “I only speaketh the truth!”

“Even if you’re right.” Camille raises a finger at Avaline’s incredulous _If???_ She throws Avaline a reproachful look before turning back to watch Nyra wave her hands in surrender, four girls pilled on her. “There’s nothing there, Vee.”

With how easily Nyra gets the two girls off her, in between the others’ celebration, Camille’s sure she let the girls win. Camille squints when Nyra catches her eye, but Nyra shoots her a wink and makes a _shh_ gesture with her hand and Camille’s heart warms as if she’s drunk two cups of warm wine.

“I wouldn’t be so sure, Cammie,” Avaline whispers. Camille gives her a questioning look but all Avaline offers is a mysterious smile and a pat on the shoulder.

—————

She doesn’t linger on Avaline’s words.

If she spends the afternoon pondering about what ifs instead of going through her father’s journal for the umpteenth time, well that’s purely a coincidence. And should she make her way to the LeRoux’s land, well that’s become a routine of sorts.

And should she seek out Jasmine in the middle of garden work and ask about a very particular spell she may or may not have read in the _Oddities of Garden Magics_ , well, there’s nothing particularly odd about it. And if Jasmine gave her a curious yet seemingly pointed look, Camille’s focused on writing down every bit of advice to point it out.

And should she spend the evening in her room, cross-legged on the floor with Toben on her head and several pots of dirt in front of her, three pots with dead plants and a cactus hidden behind her, with her father’s journal close to her knee — well, that’s her business, now, isn’t it?

_“This one’s the closest you can use, without going into elaborate circles and extra spices,”_ Jasmine had said, pointing to the spell Camille has open right now. _“Even better if you got a piece of what you’re trying to make. Like a starting point. A seed — metaphorically speaking.”_

_Coax. Soothe. Bribe_ — Camille remembers, taking a lone rose leaf she swiped from the bushes earlier, and gently putting it in a pot. She puts her hands around the pot, thumbs just touching the dirt. She closes her eyes, and breathes. She imagines a rose as clear as she can, thornless and vibrant and newly-sprouted.

She imagines it pressed against a freckled nose, a shy grin peeking against the petals and emerald eyes warm and bright sitting pointedly on her and Camille, for once, lets the warmth spread from her chest, lets it dry her throat and burn her neck and make her hands all jittery and then, and only then, does she start the incantation.

And should she open her eyes and let out a triumphant _wooop_ at the sight of a rose, perfectly thornless, a shade of red matching her hair and not a wilting petal on it, only Toben’s there to hear her, and even he’s too busy adding happy cheers to her cacophony.

(And should she bribe Francesca and Millie to drag Nyra out into the garden the next morning, leaving her room perfectly vacant so she can slip the rose on her pillow, well those two are surprisingly easy to bribe.)

—————

Camille doesn’t see Nyra for the rest of the day. Or the day after that. Not even during lunch and Nyra never misses lunch. Not even Sloan or TJ know where she is. Or they do and they’re not telling, which now that she thinks about it, is the more likely answer and she probably should’ve pressed them for more information but —

But Camille’s mind is too busy chewing her out with _You fucked up, you fucked it up, one friend that mattered and now you’ve gone and made it weird_ and _Why a rose, why not something less conspicuous, why so on the nose, oh God Camille you idiot_ and _stupid stupid stupid stupid_

“Cammie.” Camille jerks at Avaline’s voice, her hand flying to where Avaline’s got hers on Camille’s shoulder. But she sees the sleep-mussed blonde hair and Avaline squinting down at her sleepily and her pink, bunny pyjamas and Camille breathes easier.

“Go to bed,” Avaline orders, and she nudges Camille’s shoulder insistently, prodding and poking until Camille relents.

And when she reaches her door, there’s a fox waiting for her. Calmly sitting by her door and holding a note in his mouth that reads _Follow me_ is surprisingly elegant writing. That and nothing else. Camille shoots Foxtrot a quizzical look but only gets a yip and a wag of his fluffy tail and — is that a ribbon around his tail? _What?_

So she follows Foxtrot, down into the main hall and right and another winding hallway only to take another right and Camille remembers part of the halls from her lessons with the girls but she’s always just rushed through them to reach the main room but Foxtrot —

He leads her to one of the atriums, one she remembers Silvia was renovating, and her mind goes blank at the sight. Fireflies, dozens several dozen, maybe even a hundred fly about the atrium, making it seem like the stars dropped down from the skies and were dancing before her fingers, swirling around her and buzzing past her and she can feel a faint magic radiating off them but to have so many —

And right in the middle of it is Nyra, hands in her pockets and looking nervous as hell, grin wavering as she says, “Hey there, princess.”

“How — what — where — Did you — ?” Camille fumbles, hands waving at the fireflies dancing around them.

“I might’ve.” Nyra shrugs and it’s supposed to come off as nonchalant, but Camille can see the way she bites her lip, can see the darker shade covering her cheeks, the way she darts her eyes to the side before landing on Camille again. “Soooo, whatcha think? Pretty sick, right?”

Camille lets her eyes dance around the atrium, follows the fireflies until she gives up trying to trace them all. Instead she looks back to Nyra and her cheeks hurt from smiling so much. “It’s beautiful, Nyra.”

“Well, I can’t topple a magic rose on my pillow, but —” She stretches the word, slowly coming closer with a familiar confidence and a lopsided smirk that’s 100% Lilinyra Dupre. “I figured dancing amid fireflies is a close second, eh?”

Camille’s heart is drumming in her ears, and she has to put extra effort just to breathe, but when she takes Nyra’s hand, when she slides her hand over Nyra’s bare shoulder, Nyra’s own slipping around Camille’s waist — when Nyra uses it to tug Camille closer and whisper a _Hey there_ — a surge of confidence rushes through her and she finds herself whispering, “You know what’d topple a magic rose on the pillow?”

Nyra tilts her head, a curious glint in her eyes. “I’m all ears, Red.”

Before she can chicken out, Camille tugs in their joint hands and presses her lips to Nyra’s and it’s better than all the magic fireflies-filled atriums and magic roses and soft dance lessons in the afternoon.

Doubly so when Nyra chases after her after they separate, and the noise she makes against Camille’s lips, in time with Camille sliding her fingers into Nyra’s hair, is a rush like no other, its own separate warmth and Camille’s more than willing to get lost in it.

—————

The next morning Nyra, late for breakfast and still half-asleep, greet Camille with a kiss on the cheek, and Avaline gives her the most _I told you so_ look, Camille kicks her under the table.

—————

Very little changes after that night. Well, very little in the sense that nothing changes in their research to get the Summoning right and get better control over LeRoux magic so Camille doesn’t puke dirt and weeds again, once was more than enough thank you.

But in the sense of Nyra dropping by the library just to bribe Camille with kisses until she takes a break — a break that might involve more of said kisses and maybe some actual dancing? Or perhaps you’re referring to the way Nyra absolutely looks for any and all excuses just to plant a quick peck on Camille’s cheek or on her hand or on her lips if Camille’s had enough of her teasing? Or perhaps the way Nyra plays with Camille’s hand when her bribes don’t work (it can happen, and Camille enjoys doing it just to get a front row seat to Nyra’s overly dramatic gasp and _I’m slipping, Foxtrot; my game’s ruined, a shamble of the girl I was_ ) and the way she purposefully tugs on Camille’s hand so she can try to bribe her with pouts and puppy-dog eyes?

Yeah big changes.

Camille can’t stop smiling.

—————

Avaline leaves at the end of the week, dragging her feet and incurring the wrath of _three_ phone calls from Athalie before she huffs out a _Fine, I’m packing_ and even then she lingers at the door, hugging Camille and muttering _If I hug you long enough maybe she’ll forget_. And as much as Camille would want that to happen, it doesn’t and Avaline leaves with a promise of skype calls and texts at any time, _especially if it’s Dupre girlfriend updates, Cammie!_

Why you ask?

Because a few days earlier Nyra had to leave for the Dupre’s annual Summoning, and to perform her Second to the Matriarch Things they’ve been practicing, and Camille understands. She does. Honest. But it doesn’t stop the disappointment from settling in, the uncertainty because she knows Nyra can’t stay forever, knows she’s got other obligations that’ll take her far from the manor — Ashanti’s _Weren’t you in New Mexico?_ rings in her ears. Camille knows all of this, and pushes her feelings down and smiles when Nyra comes to say goodbye.

But what she doesn’t know, or rather didn’t expect, is for Nyra to promise, _I’ll be back, Camille_. To hold her close and tight and repeat it again and again until Camille believes her, until it’s burned into her skin like the scars on her back but — but this one she’s wear proudly, trace like the way she catches Nyra tracing the ones on the back of her arms.

_I’ll come back_ , echoes with every text Nyra sends, vibrates in her bones with the ones of a sleepy grey cat and a caption _Is this Silvia_ and a thinking emoji.

_I’ll come back_ , Camille repeats, looking at the jacket hanging on the back of her chair, and she doubts it was accidentally left for her to find in the library the morning after Nyra left. Doubts it just like it smells of cinnamon and smoke, and sometimes when she wears it, if feels like Nyra’s there, with her lopsided grin and her overly cuddly fox and Camille thinks she can get through this boring-ass chapter, can draw this overly complex diagram, won’t let her magic warp the table out of frustration.

—————

It’s not the sound of someone very loudly tumbling through the kitchen that wakes her. Oh no with the last two days she’s had, Camille’s ready to sleep right through it. But what still manages to wake her — will _always_ manage to wake her, she thinks — is Soot cawing insistently overhead, sounding as close to being alarmed as Silvia’s crow usually gets. Then of course there’s the matter of trying to sleep through Silvia’s curse-filled scrambling to get off the sofa without tearing and scattering their research, and one simply does not sleep through _that_.

“I swear I need to upgrade the wards around the manor,” Silvia grumbles for the third time, practically flying through the corridor with Camille all but running to keep up, her bare feet uncomfortably loud in the night.

“Or keep the cookies outside,” Camille mumbles, half of her sentence lost in a yawn, but she thinks Silvia gets the gist of it.

But it’s not Rowena they see in the kitchen. No, the first thing Camille sees is a very familiar fox running to her only to slide into a halt and rub his face against her knee with a happy yip. And where there’s Foxtrot, close behind is —

Sure enough Nyra’s there, leaning against the counter, a bowl and a bottle of milk next to her and holding an empty box of cereal. She looks like she hasn’t slept a wink in two days but Camille thinks she’s never seen a more beautiful sight.

And if Silvia asks (which she doesn’t), Camille would blame her sleep-addled brain for how she practically bolts for Nyra, for how she nearly tackles the Dupre witch, the counter and the arms around her back the only thing keeping them upright.

“Hey there, Camille,” Nyra purrs. Camille’s not sure she shivers from the sound or the feeling of lips against her temple. Both? Yeah, both is good.

With effort, Camille leans back, eyes tracing Nyra’s face, mapping out the faint freckles, swimming in emerald, dancing over that lopsided grin, as if to be sure she’s here. “What’re you doing here?”

“What kind of girlfriend would I be to let my girl stress over her ritual alone?” Nyra leans closer, so Camille can see the raised brow, the quizzical look in Nyra’s eyes. “Momma didn’t raise no quitter. Only quality girlfriend material right here, princess.”

And even if she wanted to Camille could stop the emotions from bubbling forth, from guiding her hand to Nyra’s cheek, the skin beneath her palm warm. From pushing her forward until she’s planted a kiss on Nyra’s other cheek. She feels more than sees Nyra’s blush, the way her hands tighten where they’ve slid to Camille’s waist.

_CAW_.

Both of them are abruptly reminded they aren’t alone in the kitchen, and with startling synchronization turn to see Silvia staring at them with a sleepy look, arms crossed. But if Camille squints, she can make out an upturned quirk of Silvia’s lips.

“That is, um,” Nyra starts, fingers tapping nervously. “If Silv doesn’t mind me staying here a bit longer?”

A beat. Then Silvia snorts.

“Yeah. Okay. Sure. As long as you fix the toaster,” she says. She waves off Nyra’s weak _But TJ broke it_ , stepping closer to wrap both her and Camille into a loose embrace. She plants a quick kiss on each of their heads, and mumbles, “Get some rest. No midnight snacks.”

“Boo, you’re no fun.” Nyra pouts, but Silvia merely grins back, mussing her hair and —

And Camille’s still got that whole Summoning thing looming over her head, but it that moment, with Nyra’s arms around her and Silvia teasing her and the promise of a skype call with Avaline in the morning — well, it doesn’t look so daunting.

—————


End file.
